University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

GIFT  OP 

The  Friends  of  The  Bancroft  Library 


IRISH    MEMORIES 


VIOLET   FLORENCE    MARTIN. 


IRISH  MEMORIES 


E.  CE.  SOMERVILLE  and  MARTIN   ROSS 

AUTHORS    OF    "  SOME   EXPERIENCES   OF    AN   IRISH   R.M.," 
"the    real   CHARLOTTE,"   ETC. 


WITH   23    ILLUSTRATIONS    FROM  DRAWINGS  BY 
E.   (E.    SOMERVILLE    AND     FROM    PHOTOGRAPHS 


LONGMANS,    GREEN,    AND    CO. 

39  PATERNOSTER  ROW.  LONDON 

NEW  YORK,  BOMBAY,  AND  CALCUTTA 

1917 

All  rights  resefved. 


PREFACE 

I  HAVE  many  people  to  thank,  for  many  things, 
and  I  have  an  explanation  to  make,  but  the  thanks 
must  come  first. 

I  offer  my  most  sincere  gratitude  to  Mrs.  Butler 
and  to  Professor  Edgeworth,  for  their  kindness  in 
permitting  me  to  print  Miss  Edgeworth's  letters  to 
Mrs.  Bushe  ;  to  Lord  Dunsany,  for  the  extract  from 
"  Plays  of  Gods  and  Men,"  which  has  said  for  me  what 
I  could  not  say  for  myself ;  to  the  Editors  of  the 
Spectator  and  of  Punch,  for  their  permission  to  use 
Martin  Ross's  letter  and  the  quatrain  to  her  memory  ; 
to  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Campbell,  the  Right  Hon.  Sir  Horace 
Plunkett,  P.C,  Captain  Stephen  Gwynn,  M.P.,  Lady 
Coghill,  Colonel  Dawson,  and  other  of  Martin  Ross's 
friends,  for  lending  me  the  letters  that  she  wrote  to 
them ;  even  when  these  are  not  quoted  verbatim,  they 
have  been  of  great  service  to  me,  and  I  am  very 
grateful  for  having  been  allowed  to  see  them. 

I  have  to  explain  what  may  strike  some  as  singular, 
viz.,  the  omission,  as  far  as  was  practicable,  from 
the  letters  of  Martin  Ross,  and  from  this  book  in 
general,  of  the  names  of  her  and  my  friends  and 
relatives  who  are  still  living.  I  have  been  guided 
by  a  consensus  of  the  opinion  of  those  whom  I  have 
consulted,  and  also  by  my  remembrance  of  Martin 
Ross's  views  on  the  subject,  which  she  often  expressed 


vi  PREFACE 

to  me  in  connection  with  sundry  and  various  volumes 
of  Recollections,  that  have  dealt  with  living  con- 
temporaries with  a  frankness  that  would  have  seemed 
excessive  in  the  case  of  a  memoir  of  the  life  of  Queen 
Anne.  If  I  have  gone  to  the  opposite  extreme,  I 
hope  it  may  be  found  a  fault  on  the  right  side. 

E.  OE.  SOMERVILLE. 
September  20th,  1917. 


CONTENTS 


chap.  page 

Inteoductoey 1 

I. — The  Martins  of  Ross 3 

n.— The  Chief 41 

III. — Mainly  Maeia  Edgewoeth 51 

IV.— Old  Foegotten  Things 61 

V. — Eaely  West  Caebeey 71 

VI.— Hee  Mothee        .        .        .         .         .        .        .78 

Vn.— My  Mothee 87 

VIII.— Heeself      ........  97 

IX.— Myself  When  Young 106 

X.— When  First  She  Came 119 

XI.—"  An  Ibish  Cousm  " 128 

Xn. — The  Yeaes  op  the  Locust  .        .        .        .140 

XIII.— The  Restoration 163 

XIV.— RiCKEEN 169 

XV.— Faiths  and  Faietes    .        .        .        .        .        .181 

XVI. — Beliefs  and  Believees 188 

XVII. — Lettees  feom  Ross 197 

vU 


viii  CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGB 

XVIII.—"  TouKS,  Idle  Toues  " 207 

XIX.— Of  Dogs 217 

XX.—"  The  Real  Chaelotte  "        .        .        .        .229 

XXI.— Saint  Andeews 241 

XXII.— At  IStaples 252 

XXIII.— Paris  Again  ....                 .        .  260 

XXIV.— Horses  and  Hounds 272 

XXV.— «  The  Irish  R.M." 286 

XXVI.— Of  Good  Times 294 

XXVII.— Various  Opinions 309 

XXVIII.— The  Last 324 

APPENDICES 

I.— Letters    from    Chief   Justice    Charles  Kendal 

BusHE  to  Mrs.  Bushe 329 

IL— A  Note  by  Captain  Stephen  Gwtnn,  M.P.    .        .  336 

III.— Her  Freends 337 

IV.— Bibliography 840 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 


Violet  Florence  Martin  (Photograph) 

Ross  House,  Co.   Galway  {inset)  The  Martin 

Coat  of  Arms  (Photograph) 
Castle  Haven  Harbour  (Photo,  by  Martin  Boss) 
Carberiae  Rupes  (Photo,  by  Sir  E.  B.  Goghill 

Bart.)    .         .         .      "  . 
From  the  Garden,  Brisbane  (Photo,  by  Martin 


Drishane  House  (Photo,  by  Martin  Boss) 
Hydrangeas,     Drishane    Avenue    (Photo,    by 
Martin  Boss)  .... 

Dans  la  Rive    Gauche    (Drawing    by  E.   (E 

Somerville)  ..... 
Martin  Ross  on  Confidence  (Photograph) 
Edith  (Enone  Somerville  (Photograph)    . 

A  Castle  Haven  Woman  (Drawing  by  E.  (E 
Somerville)       .       .         .         .         . 

Martin  Ross  (Photo,  by  Lady  Coghill) 

Ross  Lake  (Photograph) 

E.  CE.  Somerville  on  Tarbrush  (Photograph) 

E.  (E.  S.— Candy— Sheila— V.  F.  M.  (Photo,  by 
Sir  E.  B.  Coghill,  BaH.) 

Candy  (Photo,  by  Martin  Boss) 

E.  (E.  S.  and  a  Dilettante  (Photo,  by  Martin 
Boss)    ....... 

"  Chez  Cuneo  "  (Drawing  by  E.  (E.  Somerville) 

The   West  Carbery  Hounds   (Photo,  by  Miss 

M.  J.  Bobertson)     ..... 

At  Bunalun.    "  Gone  to  Ground  "  (Photo,  by 
Mr.  Ambrose  Cramer)     .... 

Waiting  for  the  Terriers  (Photo,  by  Mr.  Ambrose 
Cramer) 

West  Carbery  Hounds  at  Liss  Ard  (Photograph) 

Portofino  (Photo,  by  Martin  Boss) 


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THE    TENTS   OF   THE   ARABS. 

ACT  II. 

King. 
What  is  this  child  of  man  that  can  conquer  Time  and  that  is 
braver  than  Love  ? 

EZNAEZA. 

Even  Memory  .... 

He  shall  bring  back  our  year  to  us  that  Time  cannot  destroy. 
Time  cannot  slaughter  it  if  Memory  says  no.  It  is  reprieved, 
though  banished.  We  shall  often  see  it,  though  a  little  far  off, 
and  all  its  hours  and  days  shall  dance  to  us  and  go  by  one  by  one 
and  come  back  and  dance  again. 

KmG. 

Why,  that  is  true.  They  shall  come  back  to  us,  I  had  thought 
that  they  that  work  miracles,  whether  in  Heaven  or  Earth,  were 
unable  to  do  one  thing.  I  thought  that  they  could  not  bring  back 
days  again  when  once  they  had  fallen  into  the  hands  of  Time. 

EZNAEZA. 
It  is  a  trick  that  Memory  can  do.     He  comes  up  softly  in  the 
town  or  the  desert,  wherever  a  few  men  are,  like  the  strange  dark 
conjurers  who  sing  to  snakes,  and  he  does  his  trick  before  them, 
and  does  it  again  and  again. 

King. 
We  will  often  make  him  bring  the  old  days  back  when  you  are 
gone  to  your  people  and  I  am  miserably  wedded  to  the  princess 
coming  from  Tharba. 

EZNAEZA. 

They  will  come  with  sand  on  their  feet  from  the  golden, 
beautiful  desert ;  they  will  come  with  a  long-gone  sunset  each  one 
over  his  head.  Their  lips  will  laugh  with  the  olden  evening 
voices. 

From  "  Plays  oj  Gods  and  Men,''  by  Lord  Dunsany. 


IRISH    MEMORIES 

INTRODUCTORY 

Perhaps  I  ought  to  begin  by  saying  that  I  have 
always  called  her  "  Martin "  ;  I  propose  to  do  so 
still.  I  cannot  think  of  her  by  any  other  name.  To 
her  own  family,  and  to  certain  of  her  friends,  she  is 
Violet ;  to  many  others  she  is  best  known  as  Martin 
Ross.  But  I  shall  write  of  her  as  I  think  of  her. 
*  *  *  *  * 

When  we  first  met  each  other  we  were,  as  we  then 
thought,  well  stricken  in  years.  That  is  to  say,  she 
was  a  little  over  twenty,  and  I  was  four  years  older 
than  she.  Not  absolutely  the  earliest  morning  of 
life ;  say,  about  half-past  ten  o'clock,  with  breakfast 
(and  all  traces  of  bread  and  butter)  cleared  away. 

We  have  said  to  each  other  at  intervals  since  then 
that  some  day  we  should  have  to  write  our  memoirs ; 
I  even  went  so  far  as  to  prepare  an  illustration — I  have 
it  still — of  our  probable  appearances  in  the  year  1920. 
(And  the  forecast  was  not  a  flattering  one.)  Well, 
1920  has  not  arrived  yet,  but  it  has  moved  into  the 
circle  of  possibilities ;  1917  has  come,  and  Martin 
has  gone,  and  I  am  left  alone  to  write  the  memoirs, 
with  such  a  feeling  of  inadequacy  as  does  not  often, 
I  hope,  beset  the  historian. 

These  vagrant  memories  do  not  pretend  to  regard 

B 


2  IRISH  MEMORIES 

themselves  as  biography,  autobiography,  as  anything 
serious  or  valuable.  Martin  and  I  were  not  accus- 
tomed to  take  ourselves  seriously,  and  if  what  I  may 
remember  has  any  value,  it  will  be  the  value  that  there 
must  be  in  a  record,  however  unworthy,  of  so  rare  and 
sunny  a  spirit  as  hers,  and  also,  perhaps,  in  the  pre- 
servation of  a  phase  of  Irish  life  that  is  fast  disappear- 
ing. I  will  not  attempt  any  plan  of  the  path  that  I 
propose  to  follow.  I  must  trust  to  the  caprice  of 
memory,  supplemented  by  the  diaries  that  we  have 
kept  with  the  intermittent  conscientiousness  proper 
to  such.  To  keep  a  diary,  in  any  degree,  implies  a 
certain  share  of  industry,  of  persistence,  even  of 
imagination.  Let  us  leave  it  at  that.  The  diaries 
will  not  be  brought  into  court. 


CHAPTER  I 

THE   MARTINS   OF   ROSS 

A  FEW  years  ago  Martin  wrote  an  account  of  her 
eldest  brother,  Robert,  known  and  loved  by  a  very 
wide  circle  outside  his  own  family  as  "  Ballyhooley." 
He  died  in  September,  1905,  and  in  the  following 
spring,  one  of  his  many  friends.  Sir  Henniker  Heaton, 
wrote  to  my  cousin  and  begged  her  to  help  him  in 
compiling  a  book  that  should  be  a  memorial  of  Robert, 
of  his  life,  his  writings,  and  of  his  very  distinguished 
and  valuable  political  work  as  a  speaker  and  writer 
in  the  Unionist  cause.  Sir  Henniker  Heaton  died,  and 
the  project  unfortunately  fell  through,  but  not  before 
my  cousin  had  written  an  account  of  Robert,  and, 
incidentally,  a  history  of  Ross  and  the  Martins  which  is 
in  itself  so  interesting,  and  that,  indirectly,  accounts 
for  so  many  of  her  own  characteristics,  that,  although 
much  that  she  had  meant  to  write  remains  unac- 
complished, I  propose,  unfinished  though  it  is,  to 
make  it  the  foremost  chapter  in  these  idle  and  straying 
recollections. 

AN   ACCOUNT    OF  ROBERT   JASPER  MARTIN,   OF   ROSS. 
BY   "  MARTIN   ROSS  " 

Part  I 

My  brother  Robert's  life  began  with  the  epoch 
that  has  changed  the  face  and  the  heart  of  Ireland.     It 

B  2 


4  IRISH  MEMORIES 

ended  untimely,  in  strange  accord  with  the  close  of 
that  epoch  ;  the  ship  has  sunk,  and  he  has  gone  down 
with  it. 

He  was  born  on  June  17th,  1846,  the  first  year  of 
the  Irish  famine,  when  Ireland  brimmed  with  a 
potato-fed  population,  and  had  not  as  yet  discovered 
America.  The  quietness  of  untroubled  centuries  lay 
like  a  spell  on  Connemara,  the  country  of  his  ancestors  ; 
the  old  ways  of  life  were  unquestioned  at  Ross,  and 
my  father  went  and  came  among  his  people  in  an 
intimacy  as  native  as  the  soft  air  they  breathed. 
On  the  crowded  estate  the  old  routine  of  potato 
planting  and  turf  cutting  was  pursued  tranquilly ; 
the  people  intermarried  and  subdivided  their  holdings  ; 
few  could  read,  and  many  could  not  speak  English. 
All  were  known  to  the  Master,  and  he  was  known  and 
understood  by  them,  as  the  old  Galway  people  knew 
and  understood ;  and  the  subdivisions  of  the  land 
were  permitted,  and  the  arrears  of  rent  were  given  time, 
or  taken  in  boat-loads  of  turf,  or  worked  off  by  day- 
labour,  and  eviction  was  unheard  of.  It  was  give  and 
take,  with  the  personal  element  always  warm  in  it : 
as  a  system  it  was  probably  quite  uneconomic,  but  the 
hand  of  affection  held  it  together,  and  the  tradition 
of  centuries  was  at  its  back. 

The  intimate  relations  of  landlord  and  tenant  were 
an  old  story  at  Ross.  It  was  in  the  days  of  Queen 
Elizabeth  that  they  began,  when  the  Anglo-Norman 
families,  known  as  the  Tribes  of  Galway,  still  in  the 
high  summer  of  their  singular  and  romantic  pros- 
perity, began  to  contemplate  existence  as  being  possible 
outside  the  walls  of  Galway  Town,  and  by  purchase 
or  by  conquest  acquired  many  lands  in  the  county. 
They  had  lived  for  three  or  four  centuries  in  the  town, 
self-sufficing,  clannish  and  rich ;  they  did  not  forget 
the  days  of  Strong-Bow,  who,  in  the  time  of  Henry  II, 


THE  MARTINS  OF  ROSS  5 

began  the  settlement  of  Galway,  nor  yet  the  leadership 
of  De  Burgho,  and  they  maintained  their  isolation, 
and  married  and  intermarried  in  inveterate  exclusive- 
ness,  until,  in  the  time  of  Henry  VIII,  relationship 
was  so  close  and  intricate  that  marriages  were  not 
easy.  They  rang  the  changes  on  Christian  names, 
Nicholas,  Dominick,  Robert,  Andrew ;  they  built 
great  houses  of  the  grey  Galway  limestone,  with  the 
Spanish  courtyards  and  deep  archways  that  they 
learned  from  their  intercourse  with  Spain,  and  they 
carved  their  coats  of  arms  upon  them  in  that  indomit- 
able family  pride  that  is  an  asset  of  immense  value 
in  the  history  of  a  country.  Even  now,  the  shop- 
fronts  of  Galway  carry  the  symbols  of  chivalry  above 
their  doors,  and  battered  shields  and  quarterings 
look  strangely  down  from  their  places  in  the  ancient 
walls  upon  the  customers  that  pass  in  beneath  them. 
It  was  in  the  sixteenth  century  that  Robert  Martin, 
one  of  the  long  and  powerful  line  of  High  Sheriffs 
and  Mayors  of  Galway,  became  possessed  of  a  large 
amount  of  land  in  West  Galway,  and  in  1590  Ross 
was  his  country  place.  From  this  point  the  Martins 
began  slowly  to  assimilate  West  Galway ;  Ross, 
Dangan,  Birch  Hall,  and  Ballinahinch,  marked  their 
progress,  until  Ballinahinch,  youngest  and  greatest 
of  the  family  strongholds,  had  gathered  to  itself 
nearly  200,000  acres  of  Connemara.  It  fell,  tragically, 
from  the  hand  of  its  last  owner,  Mary  Martin,  Princess 
of  Connemara,  in  the  time  of  the  Famine,  and  that  page 
of  Martin  history  is  closed  in  Galway,  though  the 
descendants  of  her  grandfather,  "  Humanity  Dick  '* 
(for  ever  to  be  had  in  honourable  remembrance  as 
the  author  of  "  Martin's  Act  for  the  Prevention  of 
Cruelty  to  Animals  "),  have  kept  alive  the  old  name 
of  Ballinahinch,  and  have  opened  a  new  and  notable 
record  for  themselves  in  Canada. 


6  IRISH  MEMORIES 

Of  Dangan,  the  postern  gate  by  the  Galway  river 
remains  ;  of  Birch  Hall,  the  ruins  of  a  courtyard  and 
of  a  manorial  dove-cot ;  Ross,  the  first  outpost,  nurse 
of  many  generations  of  Martins,  still  stands  by  its 
lake  and  looks  across  it  to  its  old  neighbour,  the  brown 
mountain,  Croagh  Keenan. 

Through  a  line  of  Jaspers,  Nicholases  and  Roberts, 
the  story  of  Ross  moved  prosperously  on  from  Robert 
of  Elizabeth's  times,  untouched  even  by  the  hand  of 
Cromwell,  unshaken  even  when  the  gates  of  Galway, 
twelve  miles  away,  opened  at  length  to  Ireton. 
Beyond  the  town  of  Galway,  the  Cromwellian  did  not 
set  his  foot ;  Connemara  was  a  dark  and  barren 
country,  and  the  Martins,  Roman  Catholic  and  Royal- 
ists to  the  core,  as  were  all  the  other  Tribes  of  Galway, 
held  the  key  of  the  road. 

From  that  conflict  Ross  emerged,  minus  most  of 
its  possessions  in  Galway  town  and  suburbs ;  after 
the  Restoration  they  were  restored  by  the  Decree  of 
Charles  II,  but  remained  nevertheless  in  the  hands 
of  those  to  whom  they  had  been  apportioned  as  spoil. 
The  many  links  that  had  bound  Ross  to  Galway  Town 
seem  thenceforward  to  have  been  severed ;  during 
the  eighteenth  century  the  life  of  its  owners  was  that  of 
their  surroundings,  peaceful  for  the  most  part,  and 
intricately  bound  up  with  that  of  their  tenants.  They 
were  still  Roman  Catholic  and  Jacobite — a  kinsman 
of  Dangan  was  an  agent  for  Charles  Edward — and  each 
generation  provided  several  priests  for  its  Church. 
With  my  great-grandfather,  Nicholas,  came  the  change 
of  creed  ;  he  became  a  Protestant  in  order  to  marry  a 
Protestant  neighbour.  Miss  Elizabeth  O'Hara,  of 
Lenaboy  ;  where  an  affair  of  the  heart  was  concerned, 
he  was  not  the  man  to  stick  at  what  he  perhaps  con- 
sidered to  be  a  trifle.  It  is  said  that  at  the  end  of  his 
long  life  his  early  training  asserted  itself,  and  drew  him 


THE  MARTINS  OF  ROSS  7 

again  towards  the  Church  of  his  fathers ;  it  is  certainly 
probable  that  he  died,  as  he  was  born,  a  son  of  Rome. 

But  the  die  had  been  cast.  His  six  children  were 
born  and  bred  Protestants.  Strong  in  all  ways,  they 
were  strong  Protestants,  and  Low  Church,  according 
to  the  fashion  of  their  time,  yet  they  lived  in  an  entirely 
Roman  Catholic  district  without  religious  friction  of 
any  kind. 

It  was  during  the  life  of  Nicholas,  my  great-grand- 
father, that  Ross  House  was  burned  down  ;  with  much 
loss,  it  is  believed,  of  plate  and  pictures  ;  it  had  a 
tower,  and  stood  beautifully  on  a  point  in  the  lake. 
He  replaced  it  by  the  present  house,  built  about  the 
year  1777,  whose  architecture  is  not  aesthetically  to 
his  credit ;  it  is  a  tall,  unlovely  block,  of  great  solidity, 
with  kitchen  premises  half  underground,  and  the 
whole  surrounded  by  a  wide  and  deep  area.  It 
suggests  the  idea  of  defence,  which  was  probably  not 
absent  from  the  builder's  mind,  yet  the  Rebellion  of 
twenty  years  later  did  not  put  it  to  the  test.  In  the 
great  storm  of  1839,  still  known  as  "  The  Big  Wind," 
my  grandfather  gathered  the  whole  household  into 
the  kitchen  for  safety,  and,  looking  up  at  its  heavily- 
vaulted  ceiling,  said  that  if  Ross  fell,  not  a  house  in 
Ireland  would  stand  that  night.  Many  fell,  but  Ross 
House  stood  the  assault,  even  though  the  lawn  was 
white  with  the  spray  borne  in  from  the  Atlantic,  six 
miles  away.  It  has  at  least  two  fine  rooms,  a  lofty 
well-staircase,  with  balusters  of  mahogany,  taken  out 
of  a  wreck,  and  it  takes  all  day  the  sun  into  its  heart, 
looking  west  and  south,  with  tall  windows,  over  lake 
and  mountain.  It  is  said  that  a  man  is  never  in  love 
till  he  is  in  love  with  a  plain  woman,  and  in  spite  of 
draughts,  of  exhausting  flights  of  stairs,  of  chimneys 
that  are  the  despair  of  sweeps,  it  has  held  the  affection 
of  five  generations  of  Martins. 


8  IRISH  MEMORIES 

A  dark  limestone  slab,  over  the  dining-room 
chimney-piece,  bears  the  coat  of  arms — *'  a  Calvary 
Cross,  between  the  Sun  in  splendour  on  the  dexter 
limb,  and  the  Moon  in  crescent  on  the  sinister  of 
the  second  " — ^to  quote  the  official  description.  The 
crest  is  a  six-pointed  star,  and  the  motto,  "  Sic  itur 
ad  astra,"  connects  with  the  single-minded  simplicity 
of  the  Crusader,  the  Cross  of  our  faith  with  the  Star 
of  our  hope.  In  the  book  of  pedigrees  at  Dublin 
Castle  it  is  stated  that  the  arms  were  given  by  Richard 
Cceur  de  Lion  to  Oliver  Martin,  in  the  Holy  Land  ;  a 
further  family  tradition  says  that  Oliver  Martin 
shared  Richard's  captivity  in  Austria.  The  stone  on 
which  the  arms  are  carved  came  originally  from  an  old 
house  in  Galway ;  it  has  the  name  of  Robuck  Martin 
below,  and  the  date  1649  above.  It  is  one  of  several 
now  lying  at  Ross,  resembling  the  lintels  of  doorways, 
and  engraved  with  the  arms  of  various  Martins  and 
their  wives. 

The  Protestantism  of  my  grandfather,  Robert,  did 
not  deter  him  from  marrying  a  Roman  Catholic,  Miss 
Mary  Ann  Blakeney,  of  Bally  Ellen,  Co.  Carlow,  one 
of  three  beauties  known  in  Carlow  and  Waterford  as 
"  The  Three  Marys."  As  in  most  of  the  acts  of  his 
prudent  and  long-headed  life,  he  did  not  do  wrong. 
Her  four  children  were  brought  up  as  Protestants, 
but  the  rites  of  her  Church  were  celebrated  at  Ross 
without  let  or  hindrance ;  my  brother  Robert  could 
remember  listening  at  the  drawing-room  door  to  the 
chanting  of  the  Mass  inside,  and  prayers  were  held 
daily  by  her  for  the  servants,  all  of  whom,  then  as 
now,  were  Roman  Catholics. 

"  Hadn't  I  the  divil's  own  luck,"  groaned  a  stable- 
boy,  stuffing  his  pipe  into  his  pocket  as  the  prayer-bell 
clanged,  "  that  I  didn't  tell  the  Misthress  I  was  a 
Protestant  I  " 


THE  MARTINS  OF  ROSS  9 

She  lived  till  1855,  a  hale,  quiet,  and  singularly 
handsome  woman,  possessed  of  the  fortunate  gift  of 
living  in  amity  under  the  same  roof  with  the  many 
and  various  relations-in-law  who  regarded  Ross  as 
their  home.  Family  feeling  was  almost  a  religious 
tenet  with  my  grandfather,  and  in  this,  as  in  other 
things,  he  lived  up  to  his  theories.  Shrewd  and 
patient,  and  absolutely  proficient  in  the  affairs  of  his 
property,  he  could  take  a  long  look  ahead,  even  when 
the  Irish  Famine  lay  like  a  black  fog  upon  all  things  ; 
and  when  he  gave  up  his  management  of  the  estate 
there  was  not  a  debt  upon  it.  One  of  his  sayings  is 
so  unexpected  in  a  man  of  his  time  as  to  be  worth 
repeating.  "  If  a  man  kicks  me  I  suppose  I  must  take 
notice  of  that,"  he  said  when  reminded  of  some  fancied 
affront  to  himself,  **  short  of  that,  we  needn't  trouble 
ourselves  about  it."  He  had  the  family  liking  for  a 
horse  ;  it  is  recorded  that  in  a  dealer's  yard  in  Dublin 
he  mounted  a  refractory  animal,  in  his  frock  coat  and 
tall  hat,  got  him  out  of  the  yard,  and  took  him  round 
St.  Stephen's  Green  at  a  gallop,  through  the  traffic, 
laying  into  him  with  his  umbrella.  He  was  once,  in 
Dublin,  induced  to  go  to  an  oratorio,  and  bore  it  for 
some  time  in  silence,  till  the  choir  reiterated  the  theme, 
"  Go  forth,  ye  sons  of  Aaron  !  Go  !  "  "  Begad,  here 
goes  I  "  said  my  grandfather,  rising  and  leaving  the 
hall. 

My  father,  James,  was  born  in  1804,  and  grew  up 
endowed,  as  many  still  testify,  with  good  looks  and 
the  peculiarly  genial  and  polished  manner  that  seemed 
to  be  an  attribute  of  the  Galway  gentlemen  of  his  time. 
He  had  also  a  gift  with  his  pen  that  was  afterwards 
to  serve  him  well,  but  the  business  capacity  of  his 
father  was  strangely  absent  from  the  character  of  an 
otherwise  able  man.  He  took  his  degree  at  Trinity 
College,  Dublin,  and  was  intended  for  the  Bar,  but 


10  IRISH  MEMORIES 

almost  before  his  dinners  were  eaten  he  was  immersed 
in  other  affairs.  He  was  but  little  over  twenty  when 
he  married  Miss  Anne  Higinbotham.  It  was  a  very 
happy  marriage ;  he  and  his  wife,  and  the  four 
daughters  who  were  born  to  them,  lived  in  his  father's 
house  at  Ross,  according  to  the  patriarchal  custom  of 
the  time,  and  my  father  abandoned  the  Bar,  and  lived 
then,  as  always,  the  healthy  country  life  that  he 
delighted  in.  He  shot  woodcock  with  the  skill  that 
was  essential  in  the  days  of  muzzle-loaders,  and  pulled 
a  good  oar  in  his  father's  boat  at  the  regattas  of 
Lough  Corrib  and  Lough  Mask,  as  various  silver  cups 
still  testify.  I  remember  seeing  him,  a  straight  and 
spare  man,  well  on  in  his  sixth  decade,  take  a  racing 
spin  with  my  brothers  on  Ross  Lake,  and  though  his 
stroke  was  pronounced  by  the  younger  generation  to 
be  old-fashioned,  and  a  trifle  stiff,  he  held  his  own  with 
them.  Robert  has  often  told  me  that  when  they 
walked  the  grouse  mountains  together,  his  father 
could,  at  the  end  of  the  day,  face  a  hill  better  than  he, 
with  all  his  equipment  of  youth  and  athleticism. 

Among  the  silver  cups  at  Ross  was  a  two-handled 
one,  that  often  fascinated  our  childhood,  with  the 
inscription  : 

"  FROM  HENRY  ADAIR  OF  LOUGH ANMORE,  TO 
JAMES  MARTIN  OF  ROSS." 

It  was  given  to  my  father  in  memory  of  a  duel  in 
which  he  had  acted  as  second,  to  Henry  Adair,  who 
was  a  kinsman  of  his  first  wife. 

My  father's  first  wife  had  no  son ;  she  died  at  the 
birth  of  a  daughter,  and  her  loss  was  deep  and  grievous 
to  her  husband.  Her  four  daughters  grew  up,  very 
good-looking  and  very  agreeable,  and  were  married 
when  still  in  their  teens.  Their  husbands  all  came 
from  the   County   Antrim,   and  two   of  them  were 


THE  MARTINS  OF  ROSS  11 

brothers.  Barklie,  Callwell,  McCalmont,  Barton,  are 
well-known  names  in  Ireland  to-day,  and  beyond  it, 
and  the  children  of  his  four  elder  sisters  are  bound  to 
my  brother  Robert's  life  by  links  of  long  intimacy 
and  profound  affection. 

The  aim  of  the  foregoing  resumS  of  family  history 
has  been  to  put  forward  only  such  things  as  seem  to 
have  been  determining  in  the  environment  and 
heritage  to  which  Robert  was  born.  The  chivalrous 
past  of  Galway,  the  close  intimacy  with  the  people, 
the  loyalty  to  family  ties,  were  the  traditions  among 
which  he  was  bred ;  the  Protestant  instinct,  and  a 
tolerance  for  the  sister  religion,  born  of  sympathy  and 
personal  respect,  had  preceded  him  for  two  generations, 
and  a  store  of  shrewd  humour  and  common  sense  had 
been  laid  by  in  the  family  for  the  younger  generation 
to  profit  by  if  they  wished. 

My  father  was  a  widower  of  forty  when  he  first  met 
his  second  wife.  Miss  Anna  Selina  Fox,  in  Dublin. 
She  was  then  two  and  twenty,  a  slender  girl,  of  the 
type  known  in  those  days  as  elegant,  and  with  a  mind 
divided  in  allegiance  between  outdoor  amusements  and 
the  Latin  poets.  Her  father,  Charles  Fox,  of  New  Park, 
Co.  Longford,  was  a  barrister,  and  was  son  of  Justice 
Fox,  of  the  Court  of  Common  Pleas.  He  married 
Katherine,  daughter  of  Chief  Justice  Bushe,  and  died 
while  still  a  young  man ;  his  children  were  brought 
up  at  Kilmurrey,  the  house  of  their  mother's  father. 

The  career  of  the  Right  Honourable  Charles  Kendal 
Bushe,  Chief  Justice  of  Ireland,  is  a  public  one,  and 
need  not  here  be  dwelt  upon ;  but  even  at  this  dis- 
tance of  time  it  thrills  the  hearts  of  his  descendants 
to  remember  his  lofty  indifference  to  every  voice  save 
those  of  conscience  and  patriotism,  when,  in  the 
Irish  House  of  Commons,  he  opposed  the  Act  of  Union 
with  all  the  noble  gift  of  language  that  won  for  him 


12  IRISH  MEMORIES 

the  name  "  Silver-tongued  Bushe,"  and  left  the  walls 
ringing  with  the  reiterated  entreaty,  "  I  ask  you, 
gentlemen,  will  you  give  up  your  country  !  " 

His  attitude  then  and  afterwards  cost  him  the 
peerage  that  would  otherwise  have  been  his  ;  but 
above  the  accident  of  distinction,  and  beyond  all 
gainsaying,  is  the  fact  that  in  the  list  of  influential 
Irishmen  made  before  the  Union,  with  their  probable 
prices  (as  supporters  of  the  Act)  set  over  against 
them,  the  one  word  following  the  name  of  Charles 
Kendal  Bushe  is  "  Incorruptible.*' 

His  private  life  rang  true  to  his  public  utterances ; 
culture  and  charm,  and  a  swift  and  delightful  wit, 
made  his  memory  a  fetish  to  those  who  lived 
under  his  roof.  My  mother's  early  life  moved  as 
if  to  the  music  of  a  minuet.  She  learned  Latin  with 
a  tutor,  she  studied  the  guitar,  she  sat  in  the 
old-fashioned  drawing-room  at  Kilmurrey  while  "  The 
Chief"  read  aloud  Shakespeare,  or  the  latest  novel 
of  Sir  Walter  Scott ;  she  wrote,  at  eight  years  old, 
verses  of  smooth  and  virtuous  precocity ;  at  seven- 
teen she  translated  into  creditable  verse,  in  the 
metre  beloved  of  Pope,  a  Latin  poem  by  Lord 
Wellesley,  the  then  Viceroy,  and  received  from  him 
a  volume  in  which  it  was  included,  with  an  inscrip- 
tion no  less  stately  than  the  binding.  In  her  out- 
door life  she  was  what,  in  those  decorous  days,  was 
called  a  "  Tomboy,"  and  the  physical  courage  of 
her  youth  remained  her  distinguishing  characteristic 
through  life.  Like  the  lilies  of  the  field,  she  toiled 
not,  neither  did  she  spin,  yet  I  have  never  known  a 
more  feminine  character. 

It  was  from  her  that  her  eldest  son  derived  the 
highly  strung  temperament,  the  unconscious  keenness 
of  observation  that  was  only  stimulated  by  the  short 
sight  common  to  them  both,  the  gift  of  rapid  versify- 


THE  MARTINS  OF  ROSS  18 

ing,  and  a  deftness  and  brilliance  in  epigram  and 
repartee  that  came  to  both  in  lineal  descent  from 
"  The  Chief.'*  An  instance  of  Robert's  quickness  in 
retort  occurs  to  me,  and  I  will  give  it  here.  It  happened 
that  he  was  being  examined  in  a  land  case  connected 
with  Ross.  The  solicitor  for  the  other  side  objected 
to  the  evidence  that  he  gave,  as  relating  to  affairs 
that  occurred  before  he  was  born,  and  described  it  as 
"  hearsay  evidence." 

"  Well,  for  the  matter  of  that,  the  fact  that  I  was 
born  is  one  that  I  have  only  on  hearsay  evidence  1  '* 
said  Robert  unanswerably. 

My  mother  first  met  my  father  at  the  house  of  her 
uncle,  Mr.  Arthur  Bushe,  in  Dublin.  She  met  him 
again  at  a  ball  given  by  Kildare  Street  Club ;  they 
had  in  common  the  love  of  the  classics  and  the  love 
of  outdoor  life  ;  his  handsome  face,  his  attractiveness, 
have  been  so  often  dwelt  on  by  those  who  knew  him  at 
that  time,  that  the  mention  of  them  here  may  be  for- 
given. In  March,  1844,  they  were  married  in  Dublin, 
and  a  month  later  their  carriage  was  met  a  couple  of 
miles  from  Ross  by  the  tenants,  and  was  drawn  home 
by  them,  while  the  bonfires  blazed  at  the  gates  and  at 
the  hall  door,  and  the  bagpipes  squealed  their  wel- 
come. Bringing  with  her  a  great  deal  of  energy,  both 
social  and  literary,  a  kicking  pony,  and  a  profound 
ignorance  of  household  affairs,  my  mother  entered 
upon  her  long  career  at  Ross.  That  her  sister-in-law, 
Marian  Martin,  held  the  reins  of  office  was  fortunate 
for  all  that  composite  establishment ;  when,  later  on, 
my  mother  took  them  in  her  delicate,  impatient  hands, 
she  held  the  strictly  logical  conviction  that  a  sheep 
possessed  four  "  legs  of  mutton,"  and  she  has  shown 
me  a  rustic  seat,  hidden  deep  in  laurels,  where  she  was 
wont  to  hide  when,  as  she  said,  "  they  came  to  look 
for  me,  to  ask  what  was  to  be  for  the  servants'  dinner." 


14  IRISH  MEMORIES 

For  the  first  year  of  her  married  life  tranquillity 
reigned  in  house  and  estate ;  a  daughter  was  born, 
and  was  accepted  with  fortitude  by  an  establishment 
already  well  equipped  in  that  respect.  But  a  darker 
possibility  than  the  want  of  an  heir  arose  suddenly  and 
engrossed  all  minds. 

In  July,  1845,  my  father  drove  to  the  Assizes  in 
Galway,  twelve  and  a  half  English  miles  away,  and 
as  he  drove  he  looked  with  a  knowledgeable  eye  at  the 
plots  of  potatoes  lying  thick  and  green  on  either  side 
of  the  road,  and  thought  that  he  had  seldom  seen  a 
richer  crop.  He  slept  in  Galway  that  night,  and  next 
day  as  he  drove  home  the  smell  of  the  potato-blight 
was  heavy  in  the  air,  a  new  and  nauseous  smell.  It 
was  the  first  breath  of  the  Irish  famine.  The  suc- 
ceeding months  brought  the  catastrophe,  somewhat 
limited  in  that  first  winter,  a  blow  to  startle,  even  to 
stun,  but  not  a.  death-stroke.  Optimistically  the 
people  flung  their  thoughts  forward  to  the  next  crop, 
and  bore  the  pinch  of  the  winter  with  spasmodic  and 
mismanaged  help  from  the  Government,  with  help, 
lesser  in  degree,  but  more  direct,  from  their  land- 
lords. 

In  was  in  the  following  summer  of  stress  and  hope 
that  my  brother  Robert  was  born,  in  Dublin,  the  first 
son  in  the  Martin  family  for  forty-two  years,  and  the 
welcome  accorded  to  him  was  what  might  have  been 
expected.  The  doctor  was  kissed  by  every  woman 
in  the  house,  so  he  assured  my  brother  many  years 
afterwards,  and,  late  at  night  as  it  was,  my  father  went 
down  to  Kildare  Street  Club  to  find  some  friend  to 
whom  he  could  tell  the  news  (and  there  is  a  touch  of 
appropriateness  in  the  fact  that  the  Club,  that  for  so 
many  years  was  a  home  for  Robert,  had  the  first  news 
of  his  birth). 

Radiant   with  her   achievement  my  mother  posted 


THE  MARTINS  OF  ROSS  15 

over  the  long  roads  to  Ross,  in  the  summer  weather, 
with  her  precious  first-born  son,  and  the  welcome  of 
Ross  was  poured  forth  upon  her.  The  workmen  in  the 
yard  kissed  the  baby's  hands,  the  old  women  came  from 
the  mountains  to  prophesy  and  to  bless  and  to  perform 
the  dreadful  rite  of  spitting  upon  the  child,  for  luck. 
My  father's  mother,  honourable  as  was  her  wont 
towards  her  husband's  and  son's  religion,  asked  my 
mother  if  a  little  holy  water  might  be  sprinkled  on  the 
baby. 

"  If  you  heat  it  you  may  give  him  a  bath  in  it !  " 
replied  the  baby's  mother,  with  irrepressible  light- 
heartedness. 

It  may  be  taken  for  granted  that  he  received,  as 
we  all  did,  secret  baptism  at  the  hands  of  the  priest. 
It  was  a  kindly  precaution  taken  by  our  foster  mothers, 
who  were,  it  is  needless  to  say,  Roman  Catholics ; 
it  gave  them  peace  of  mind  in  the  matter  of  the  foster 
children  whom  they  worshipped,  and  my  father  and 
mother  made  no  inquiries.  Their  Low  Church  training 
did  not  interfere  with  their  common  sense,  nor  did 
it  blind  them  to  the  devotion  that  craved  for  the 
safeguard. 

A  month  or  two  later  the  cold  fear  for  the  safety  of 
the  potatoes  fell  again  upon  the  people  ;  the  paralys- 
ing certainty  followed.  The  green  stalks  blackened, 
the  potatoes  turned  to  black  slime,  and  the  avalanche 
of  starvation,  fever  and  death  fell  upon  the  country. 
It  was  in  the  winter  of  1847,  "  the  black  '47,"  as  they 
called  it,  when  Robert  was  in  his  second  year,  that  the 
horror  was  at  its  worst,  and  before  hope  had  kindled 
again  his  ears  must  have  known  with  their  first  under- 
standing the  weak  voice  of  hunger  and  the  moan  of 
illness  among  the  despairing  creatures  who  flocked 
for  aid  into  the  yard  and  the  long  downstairs  passages 
of  Ross.     Many  stories  of  that  time  remain  among 


16  IRISH  MEMORIES 

the  old  tenants ;  of  the  corpses  buried  where  they 
fell  by  the  roadside,  near  Ross  Gate  ;  of  the  coffins 
made  of  loose  boards  tied  round  with  a  hay  rope. 
None,  perhaps,  is  more  pitiful  than  that  of  a  woman 
who  walked  fifteen  miles  across  a  desolate  moor,  with 
a  child  in  her  arms  and  a  child  by  her  side,  to  get  the 
relief  that  she  heard  was  to  be  had  at  Ross.  Before 
she  reached  the  house  the  child  in  her  arms  was  dead  ; 
she  carried  it  into  the  kitchen  and  sank  on  the  flags. 
When  my  aunt  spoke  to  her  she  found  that  she  had 
gone  mad ;  reason  had  stopped  in  that  whelming 
hour,  like  the  watch  of  a  drowned  man. 

A  soup-kitchen  was  established  by  my  father  and 
mother  at  one  of  the  gates  of  Ross  ;  the  cattle  that  the 
people  could  not  feed  were  bought  from  them,  and 
boiled  down,  and  the  gates  were  locked  to  keep  back 
the  crowd  that  pressed  for  the  ration.  Without  rents, 
with  poor  rate  at  22s.  6d.  in  the  pound,  the  household 
of  Ross  staggered  through  the  intimidating  years,  with 
the  starving  tenants  hanging,  as  it  were,  upon  its 
skirts,  impossible  to  feed,  impossible  to  see  unfed. 
The  rapid  pens  of  my  father  and  mother  sent  the  story 
far ;  some  of  the  great  tide  of  help  that  flowed  into 
Ireland  came  to  them ;  the  English  Quakers  loaded 
a  ship  with  provisions  and  sent  them  to  Galway  Bay. 
Hunger  was  in  some  degree  dealt  with,  but  the  Famine 
fever  remained  undefeated.  My  aunt,  Marian  Martin 
(afterwards  Mrs.  Arthur  Bushe),  caught  it  in  a  school 
that  she  had  got  together  on  the  estate,  where  she 
herself  taught  little  girls  to  read  and  write  and  knit, 
and  kept  them  alive  with  breakfasts  of  oatmeal 
porridge.  My  aunt  has  told  me  how,  as  she  lay  in  the 
blind  trance  of  the  fever,  my  grandfather,  who  believed 
implicitly  in  his  own  medical  skill,  opened  a  vein  in 
her  arm  and  bled  her.  The  relief,  according  to  her 
account,  was  instant  and  exquisite,  and  her  recovery 


THE  MARTINS  OF  ROSS  IT 

set  in  from  that  hour.  She  may  have  owed  much  to 
the  determination  of  the  Martins  of  that  period  that 
they  would  not  be  ill.  My  mother,  herself  a  daring 
rebel  against  the  thraldom  of  illness,  used  to  say 
that  at  Ross  no  one  was  ill  till  they  were  dead,  and  no 
one  was  dead  till  they  were  buried.  It  was  the 
Christian  Science  of  a  tough-grained  generation. 

The  little  girls  whom  my  aunt  taught  are  old  women 
now,  courteous  in  manner,  cultivated  in  speech,  thanks 
to  the  education  that  was  given  them  when  National 
Schools  were  not. 

Our  kinsman,  Thomas  Martin  of  Ballinahinch,  fell 
a  victim  to  the  Famine  fever,  caught  in  the  Court- 
house while  discharging  his  duties  as  a  magistrate.  He 
was  buried  in  Galway,  forty  miles  by  road  from  Ballina- 
hinch, and  his  funeral,  followed  by  his  tenants,  was 
two  hours  in  passing  Ross  Gate.  In  the  words  of 
A.  M.  Sullivan,  "  No  adequate  tribute  has  ever  been 
paid  to  those  Irish  landlords — and  they  were  men  of 
every  party  and  creed — who  perished,  martyrs  to 
duty,  in  that  awful  time  ;  who  did  not  fly  the  plague- 
reeking  workhouse,  or  fever- tainted  court."  Amongst 
them  he  singled  out  for  mention  Mr.  Martin  of  Ballina- 
hinch, and  Mr.  Nolan  of  Ballinderry  (father  of  Colonel 
Nolan,  M.P.),  the  latter  of  whom  died  of  typhus  caught 
in  Tuam  Workhouse. 

When  Robert  was  three  years  old,  the  new  seed 
potatoes  began  to  resist  the  blight ;  he  was  nearly 
seven  before  the  victory  was  complete,  and  by  that 
time  the  cards  that  he  must  play  had  already  been 
dealt  to  him. 

Part  II 

The  Famine  yielded  like  the  ice  of  the  Northern 
Seas  ;  it  ran  like  melted  snows  in  the  veins  of  Ireland 
for  many  years  afterwards.     Landlords  who  had  es- 

c 


18  IRISH  MEMORIES 

caped  ruin  at  the  time  were  more  slowly  ruined  as 
time  went  on  and  the  money  borrowed  in  the  hour 
of  need  exacted  its  toll ;  Ross  held  its  ground,  with 
what  stress  its  owners  best  knew.  It  was  in  those 
difficult  years  of  Robert's  boyhood,  when  yet  more 
brothers  and  sisters  continued  to  arrive  rapidly,  that 
his  father  began  to  write  for  the  Press.  He  contri- 
buted leading  articles  to  the  Morning  Herald,  a  London 
paper,  now  extinct ;  he  went  to  London  and  lived  the 
life  that  the  writing  of  leading  articles  entails,  with  its 
long  waiting  for  the  telegrams,  and  its  small-hour 
suppers,  and  it  told  on  the  health  of  a  man  whose 
heart  had  been  left  behind  him  in  the  West.  It  tided 
over  the  evil  time,  it  brought  him  into  notice  with  the 
Conservative  Party  and  the  Irish  Government,  and 
probably  gained  for  him  subsequently  his  appointment 
of  Poor  Law  Auditor. 

His  style  in  writing  is  quite  unlike  that  of  his  eldest 
son ;  it  is  more  rigid,  less  flowing  ;  the  sentences  are 
short  and  pointed,  evidently  modelled  on  the  rhythmic 
hammer- stroke  of  Macaulay  ;  it  has  not  the  careless 
and  sunshiny  ease  with  which  Robert  achieved  his 
best  at  the  first  attempt.  That  facility  and  versifi- 
cation that  is  akin  to  the  gift  of  music,  and,  like  it,  is 
inborn,  came  from  my  mother,  and  came  to  him  alone 
of  his  eight  brothers  and  sisters  ;  in  her  letters  to  her 
children  she  dropped  into  doggerel  verse  without  an 
effort,  rhymes  and  metres  were  in  her  blood,  and  to 
the  last  year  of  her  life  she  never  failed  to  criticise 
occasional  and  quite  insignificant  roughnesses  in  her 
son's  poems.  Of  her  own  polished  and  musical  style 
one  verse  in  illustration  may  be  given. 

•'  In  the  fond  visions  of  the  silent  night, 

I  dreamt  thy  love,  thy  long  sought  love,  was  won ; 
Was  it  a  dream,  that  vision  of  delight —  ? 

I  woke  ;  'twas  but  a  dream,  let  me  dream  on  !  " 


THE  MARTINS  OF  ROSS  19 

Robert  was  a  nervous,  warm-hearted  boy,  dark- 
eyed  and  romantic-looking  ;  the  sensitive  nature  that 
expanded  to  affection  was  always  his,  and  made  him 
cling  to  those  who  were  kind  to  him.  The  vigorous 
and  outdoor  life  of  Ross  was  the  best  tonic  for  such  a 
nature,  the  large  and  healthful  intimacy  with  lake  and 
woods,  bog  and  wild  weather,  and  shooting  and 
rowing,  learned  unconsciously  from  a  father  who  de- 
lighted in  them,  and  a  mother  who  knew  no  fear  for 
herself  and  had  little  for  her  children.  Everything 
in  those  early  days  of  his  was  large  and  vigorous ; 
tall  trees  to  climb,  great  winds  across  the  lake  to 
wrestle  with,  strenuous  and  capable  talk  upstairs  and 
downstairs,  in  front  of  furnaces  of  turf  and  logs,  long 
drives,  and  the  big  Galway  welcome  at  the  end  of  them. 
One  day  was  like  another,  yet  no  day  was  monotonous. 
Prayers  followed  breakfast,  long  prayers,  beginning 
with  the  Psalms,  of  which  each  child  read  a  verse  in 
due  order  of  seniority  ;  then  First  and  Second  Lessons, 
frequently  a  chapter  from  a  religious  treatise,  finally 
a  prayer,  from  a  work  named  "  The  Tent  and  Altar," 
all  read  with  excellent  emphasis  by  the  master  of  the 
house.  In  later  years,  after  Robert  had  matriculated 
at  Trinity  College,  I  remember  with  what  youthful 
austerity  he  read  prayers  at  Ross,  and  with  what  awe 
we  saw  him  reject  "The  Tent  and  Altar"  and  heard 
him  recite  from  memory  the  Morning  Prayers  from  the 
Church  Service.  He  was  at  the  same  time  deputed  to 
teach  Old  Testament  history  to  his  brothers  and 
sisters ;  to  this  hour  the  Judges  of  Israel  are  pain- 
fully stamped  on  my  brain,  as  is  the  tearful  morning 
when  the  Bible  was  hurled  at  my  inattentive  head 
by  the  hand  of  the  remorseless  elder  brother. 

Robert's  early  schoolroom  work  at  Ross  was  got 
through  with  the  ease  that  may  be  imagined  by 
anyone  who  has  known  his  quickness  in  assimilating 

c  2 


20  IRISH  MEMORIES 

ideas  and  his  cast-iron  memory.  As  was  the  case 
with  all  the  Ross  children,  the  real  interests  of  the 
day  were  with  the  workmen  and  the  animals.  The 
agreeability  of  the  Galway  peasant  was  enthralling ; 
even  to  a  child ;  the  dogs  were  held  in  even  higher 
esteem.  Throughout  Robert's  life  dogs  knew  him  as 
their  friend  ;  skilled  in  the  lore  of  the  affections,  they 
recognised  his  gentle  heart,  and  the  devotion  to  him 
of  his  Gordon  setter,  Rose,  is  a  thing  to  remember. 
Even  of  late  years  I  have  seen  him  hurry  away  when 
his  sterner  sisters  thought  it  necessary  to  chastise  an 
offending  dog  ;  the  suffering  of  others  was  almost  too 
keenly  understood  by  him. 

Reading  aloud  rounded  off  the  close  of  those  early 
days  at  Ross,  Shakespeare  and  Walter  Scott,  Napier 
and  Miss  Edgeworth  ;  the  foundation  of  literary  cul- 
ture was  well  and  truly  laid,  and  laid  with  respect  and 
enthusiasm,  so  that  what  the  boy's  mind  did  not 
grasp  was  stored  up  for  his  later  understanding, 
among  things  to  be  venerated,  and  fine  diction  and 
choice  phrase  were  imprinted  upon  an  ear  that  was 
ever  retentive  of  music.  Everyone  who  remembers  his 
childhood  remembers  him  singing  songs  and  playing 
the  piano.  His  ear  was  singularly  quick,  and  I  think 
it  was  impossible  for  him  to  sing  out  of  tune.  He 
learned  his  notes  in  the  schoolroom,  but  his  musical 
education  was  dropped  when  he  went  to  school,  as  is 
frequently  the  case  ;  throughout  his  life  he  accom- 
panied himself  on  the  piano  by  ear,  with  ease,  if  with 
limitations ;  simple  as  the  accompaniments  were, 
there  was  never  a  false  note,  and  it  seemed  as  if  his 
hands  fell  on  the  right  places  without  an  effort. 

A  strange  feature  in  his  early  education  and  in  the 
establishment  at  Ross  was  James  Tucker,  an  ex-hedge 
schoolmaster,  whose  long  face,  blue  shaven  chin, 
shabby  black  clothes,  and  gift  for  poetry  have  passed 


THE  MARTINS  OF  ROSS  21 

inextricably  into  the  annals  of  the  household.  He 
entered  it  first  at  the  time  of  the  Famine,  ostensibly 
to  give  temporary  help  in  the  management  and  ac- 
counts of  the  school  which  my  aunt  Marian  had 
started  for  the  tenants'  children ;  he  remained  for 
many  years,  and  filled  many  important  posts.  He 
taught  us  the  three  R's  with  rigour  and  perseverance, 
he  wrote  odes  for  our  birthdays,  he  was  controller-in- 
chief  of  the  dairy  ;  later  on,  when  my  father  received 
the  appointment  of  Auditor  of  Poor  Law,  under  the 
Local  Government  Board,  Tucker  filled  in  the  blue 
"  abstracts "  of  the  Auditor's  work  in  admirably 
neat  columns.  Robert's  recital  of  the  multiplication 
table  was  often  interrupted  by  wails  for  "  Misther 
Tucker  "  and  the  key  of  the  dairy,  from  the  kitchen- 
maid  at  the  foot  of  the  schoolroom  stairs,  and  the 
interruption  was  freely  cursed,  in  a  vindictive  whisper, 
by  the  schoolmaster.  Tucker  was  slightly  eccentric, 
a  feature  for  which  there  was  always  toleration  and 
room  at  Ross  ;  he  entered  largely  into  the  schoolroom 
theatricals  that  sprang  up  as  soon  as  Robert  was  old 
enough  to  whip  up  a  company  from  the  ranks  of  his 
brothers  and  sisters.  The  first  of  which  there  is  any 
record  is  the  tragedy  of  "  Bluebeard,"  adapted  by 
him  at  the  age  of  eight.  As  the  author  did  not  feel 
equal  to  writing  it  down,  it  was  taught  to  the  actors 
by  word  of  mouth,  he  himself  taking  the  title  role. 
The  performance  took  place  privately  in  the  school- 
room, an  apartment  discreetly  placed  by  the  authori- 
ties in  a  wing  known  as  "  The  Offices,"  beyond  ken 
or  call  of  the  house  proper.  Tucker  was  stage  manager, 
every  servant  in  the  house  was  commandeered  as 
audience.  The  play  met  with  much  acceptance  up 
to  the  point  when  Bluebeard  dragged  Fatima  (a 
shrieking  sister)  round  the  room  by  her  hair,  be- 
labouring her  with  a  wooden  sword,  amid  the  ecstatic 


22  IRISH  MEMORIES 

yells  of  the  spectators,  but  at  this  juncture  the 
mistress  of  the  house  interrupted  the  revels  with 
paralysing  suddenness.  She  had  in  vain  rung  the 
drawing-room  bell  for  tea,  she  had  searched  and  found 
the  house  mysteriously  silent  and  empty,  till  the 
plaudits  of  the  rescue  scene  drew  her  to  the  school- 
room. Players  and  audience  broke  into  rout,  and 
Robert's  first  dramatic  enterprise  ended  in  disorder, 
and,  if  I  mistake  not,  for  the  principals,  untimely  bed. 

It  was  some  years  afterwards,  when  Robert  was  at 
Trinity,  that  a  similar  effort  on  his  part  of  missionary 
culture  ended  in  a  like  disaster.  He  became  filled 
with  the  idea  of  getting  up  a  cricket  team  at  Ross, 
and  in  a  summer  vacation  he  collected  his  eleven, 
taught  them  to  hold  a  bat,  and  harangued  them 
eloquently  on  the  laws  of  the  game.  It  was  unfor- 
tunate that  its  rules  became  mixed  up  in  the  minds 
of  the  players  with  a  game  of  their  own,  called  "  Burnt 
Ball,"  which  closely  resembles  "  Rounders,"  and  is 
played  with  a  large,  soft  ball.  In  the  first  day  of 
cricket  things  progressed  slowly,  and  the  unconverted 
might  have  been  forgiven  for  finding  the  entertain- 
ment a  trifle  dull.  A  batsman  at  length  hit  a  ball 
and  ran.  It  was  fielded  by  cover-point,  who,  bored 
by  long  inaction,  had  waited  impatiently  for  his  chance. 
In  the  enthusiasm  of  at  length  getting  something  to 
do,  the  recently  learned  laws  of  cricket  were  swept 
from  the  mind  of  cover-point,  and  the  rules  of 
Burnt  Ball  instantly  reasserted  themselves.  He 
hurled  the  ball  at  the  batsman,  shouting :  "Go 
out  I  You're  burnt !  "  and  smote  him  heavily  on 
the  head. 

The  batsman  went  out,  that  is  to  say,  he  picked 
himself  up  and  tottered  from  the  fire  zone,  and 
neither  then  nor  subsequently  did  cricket  prosper  at 
Ross. 


THE  MARTINS  OF  ROSS  28 

Then,  and  always,  Robert  shared  his  enthusiasm 
with  others ;  he  gave  himself  to  his  surroundings, 
whether  people  or  things,  and,  as  afterwards,  it  was 
preferably  people.  He  had  the  gift  of  living  in  the 
present  and  living  every  moment  of  it ;  it  might  have 
been  of  him  that  Carlyle  said,  "  Happy  men  live  in 
the  present,  for  its  bounty  suffices,  and  wise  men  too, 
for  they  know  its  value." 

Throughout  Robert's  school  and  college  days 
theatricals,  charades,  and  living  pictures,  written  or 
arranged  by  him,  continued  to  flourish  at  Ross.  There 
remains  in  my  memory  a  play,  got  up  by  him  when 
he  was  about  seventeen,  in  which  he  himself,  despising 
the  powers  of  his  sisters,  took  the  part  of  the  heroine, 
with  the  invaluable  Tucker  as  the  lover.  A  tarletan 
dress  was  commandeered  from  the  largest  of  the 
sisterhood,  and  in  it,  at  the  crisis  of  the  play,  he 
endeavoured  to  elope  with  Tucker  over  a  clothes-horse, 
draped  in  a  curtain.  It  was  at  this  point  that  the 
tarletan  dress,  tried  beyond  its  strength,  split  down 
the  back  from  neck  to  waist ;  the  heroine  flung  her 
lover  from  her,  and  backed  off  the  stage  with  her 
front  turned  firmly  to  the  audience,  and  the  elopement 
was  deferred  sine  die. 

Those  were  light-hearted  days,  yet  they  were 
indelible  in  Robert's  memory,  and  the  strength  and 
savour  of  the  old  Galway  times  were  in  them  as  in- 
extricably as  the  smell  of  the  turf  smoke  and  the  bog 
myrtle.  Nothing  was  conventional  or  stagnant,  things 
were  done  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  and  with 
a  total  disregard  for  pomps  and  vanities,  and  everyone 
preferred  good  fun  to  a  punctual  dinner.  Mingling 
with  all  were  the  poor  people,  with  their  cleverness, 
their  good  manners,  and  their  unflagging  spirits ; 
I  can  see  before  me  the  carpenter  painting  a  boat  by 
the  old  boat  quay,  and  Robert  sitting  on  a  rock,  and 


24  IRISH  MEMORIES 

talking  to  him  for  long  tracts  of  the  hot  afternoon. 
At  another  time  one  could  see  Robert  holding,  with 
the  utmost  zeal  and  discrimination,  a  court  of  arbi- 
tration in  the  coach-house  for  the  settling  of  an  in- 
tricate and  vociferous  dispute  between  two  of  the 
tenants. 

Life  at  Ross  was  of  the  traditional  Irish  kind,  with 
many  retainers  at  low  wages,  which  works  out  as  a 
costly  establishment  with  nothing  to  show  for  it. 
A  sheep  a  week  and  a  cow  a  month  were  supplied 
by  the  farm,  and  assimilated  by  the  household ;  it 
seemed  as  if  with  the  farm  produce,  the  abundance 
of  dairy  cows,  the  packed  turf  house,  the  fallen  timber 
ready  to  be  cut  up,  the  fruitful  garden,  the  game  and 
the  trout,  there  should  have  been  affluence.  But 
after  all  these  followed  the  Saturday  night  labour 
bill,  and  the  fact  remains,  as  many  Irish  landlords 
can  testify,  that  these  free  fruits  of  the  earth 
are  heavily  paid  for,  that  convenience  is  mis- 
taken for  economy,  and  that  farming  is,  for  the 
average  gentleman,  more  of  an  occupation  than  an 
income. 

The  Famine  had  left  its  legacy  of  debt  and  a  lowered 
rental,  and  further  hindrances  to  the  financial  success 
of  farm  and  estate  were  the  preoccupation  of  my 
father's  life  with  his  work  as  Auditor  of  Poor  Law 
Unions,  the  enormous  household  waste  that  took 
toll  of  everything,  and,  last  and  most  inveterate 
of  all,  my  father's  generous  and  soft  -  hearted 
disposition. 

One  instance  will  give,  in  a  few  sentences,  the  re- 
lation between  landlord  and  tenant,  which,  as  it  would 
seem,  all  recent  legislation  has  sedulously  schemed  to 
destroy.  I  give  it  in  the  words  of  one  of  the  tenants, 
widow  of  an  eye-witness. 

"  The  widow  A.,  down  by  the  lake-side  "  (Lough 


THE  MARTINS  OF  ROSS  25 

Corrib — about  three  miles  away),  "  was  very  poor  one 
time,  and  she  was  a  good  while  in  arrears  with  her 
rent.  The  Master  sent  to  her  two  or  three  times, 
and  in  the  end  he  walked  down  himself  after  his 
breakfast,  and  he  took  Thady  "  (the  steward)  "  with 
him.  Well,  when  he  went  into  the  house,  she  was  so 
proud  to  see  him,  and  '  Your  Honour  is  welcome  ! ' 
says  she,  and  she  put  a  chair  for  him.  He  didn't  sit 
down  at  all,  but  he  was  standing  up  there  with  his 
back  to  the  dresser,  and  the  children  were  sitting 
down  one  side  the  fire.  The  tears  came  from  the 
Master's  eyes  ;  Thady  seen  them  fall  down  the  cheek. 
*  Say  no  more  about  the  rent,'  says  the  Master,  to 
her,  *  you  need  say  no  more  about  it  till  I  come  to 
you  again.'  Well,  it  was  the  next  winter  the  men 
were  working  in  Gurthnamuckla,  and  Thady  with 
them,  and  the  Master  came  to  the  wall  of  the  field  and 
a  letter  in  his  hand,  and  he  called  Thady  over  to  him. 
What  had  he  to  show  him  but  the  Widow  A.'s  rent 
that  her  brother  in  America  sent  her  1 " 

It  will  not  happen  again ;  it  belongs  to  an  almost 
forgotten  rSgimet  that  was  capable  of  abuse,  yet 
capable  too  of  summoning  forth  the  best  impulses 
of  Irish  hearts.  The  end  of  that  regime  was  not  far 
away,  and  the  beginning  of  the  end  was  already  on 
the  horizon  of  Ross. 

My  grandfather,  whose  peculiar  capacity  might  once 
have  saved  the  financial  situation,  had  fallen  into  a 
species  of  second  childhood.  He  died  at  Ross,  and  I 
remember  the  cold  thrill  of  terror  with  which  I  heard 
him  "keened"  by  an  old  tenant,  a  widow,  who  asked  per- 
mission to  see  him  as  he  lay  dead.  She  went  into 
the  twilit  room,  and  suddenly  the  tremendous  and 
sustained  wail  went  through  the  house,  like  the  voice 
of  the  grave  itself. 

It  seemed  as  if  Ross  had  borne  a  charmed  life 


26  IRISH  MEMORIES 

during  the  troubles  of  the  later  'sixties.  The  Fenian 
rising  of  1867  did  not  touch  it ;  the  flicker  of  it  was 
like  sheet  lightning  in  the  Eastern  sky,  but  the  storm 
passed  almost  unheard.  It  had  been  so  in  previous 
risings ;  Ross  seemed  to  be  geographically  intended 
for  peace.  It  is  bounded  on  the  east  by  the  long 
waters  of  Lough  Corrib,  on  the  west  by  barren 
mountains,  stretching  to  the  Atlantic,  on  the  north 
by  the  great  silences  of  Connemara.  Within  these 
boundaries  the  mutual  dependence  of  landlord  and 
tenant  remained  unshaken  ;  it  was  a  delicate  relation, 
almost  akin  to  matrimony,  and  like  a  happy  marriage, 
it  needed  that  both  sides  should  be  good  fellows.  The 
Disestablishment  of  the  Irish  Church  came  in  1869, 
a  direct  blow  at  Protestantism,  and  an  equally  direct 
tax  upon  landlords  for  the  support  of  their  Church, 
but  of  this  revolution  the  tenants  appeared  to  be 
unaware.  In  1870  came  Gladstone's  Land  Act,  which 
by  a  system  of  fines  shielded  the  tenant  to  a  great 
extent  from  "  capricious  eviction."  As  evictions, 
capricious  or  otherwise,  did  not  occur  at  Ross,  this 
section  of  the  Act  was  not  of  epoch-making  importance 
there ;  its  other  provision,  by  which  tenants  became 
proprietors  of  their  own  improvements,  was  also  some- 
thing of  a  superfluity.  It  was  1872  that  brought 
the  first  cold  plunge  into  Irish  politics  of  the  new 
kind. 

In  February  of  that  year  Captain  Trench,  son  of 
Lord  Clancarty,  contested  one  of  the  divisions  of 
County  Galway  in  the  Conservative  interest,  his 
opponent  being  Captain  Nolan,  a  Home  Ruler.  It 
went  without  saying  that  my  father  gave  his  support 
to  the  Conservative,  who  was  also  a  Galway  man, 
and  the  son  of  a  friend.  Up  to  that  time  it  was  a 
matter  of  course  that  the  Ross  tenants  voted  with 
their  landlord.     Captain  Trench  canvassed  the  Ross 


THE  MARTINS  OF  ROSS  27 

district,  and  there  was  no  indication  of  what  was 
about  to  happen,  or  if  there  were,  my  father  did  not 
beheve  it.  The  polHng  place  for  that  part  of  the 
country  was  in  Oughterard,  about  five  miles  away ; 
my  father  drove  there  on  the  election  day,  and  on  the 
hill  above  the  town  was  met  by  a  man  who  advised 
him  to  turn  back.  A  troop  of  cavalry  glittered  in  the 
main  street  and  the  crowd  seethed  about  them.  My 
father  drove  on  and  saw  a  company  of  infantry 
keeping  the  way  for  Mr.  Arthur  Guinness,  afterwards 
Lord  Ardilaun,  as  he  convoyed  to  the  poll  a  handful 
of  his  tenants  from  Ashford  at  the  other  side  of  Lough 
Corrib  to  vote  for  Captain  Trench,  he  himself  walking 
in  front  with  the  oldest  of  them  on  his  arm.  During 
that  morning  my  father  ranged  through  the  crowd 
incredulously,  asking  for  this  or  that  tenant,  unable 
to  believe  that  they  had  deserted  him.  It  was 
a  futile  search  ;  with  a  few  valiant  exceptions  the  Ross 
tenants,  following  the  example  of  the  rest  of  the 
constituency,  voted  according  to  the  orders  of  their 
Church,  and  Captain  Nolan  was  elected  by  a  majority 
of  four  to  one.  It  was  a  priest  from  another  part  of 
the  diocese  who  gave  forth  the  mandate,  with  an 
extraordinary  fury  of  hatred  against  the  landlord 
side  ;  one  need  not  blame  the  sheep  who  passed  in 
a  frightened  huddle  from  one  fold  to  another.  When 
my  father  came  home  that  afternoon,  even  the 
youngest  child  of  the  house  could  see  how  great  had 
been  the  blow.  It  was  not  the  political  defeat,  severe 
as  that  was,  it  was  the  personal  wound,  and  it  was 
incurable.  A  petition  against  the  result  of  the 
election  brought  about  the  famous  trial  in  Galway, 
at  which  Judge  Keogh,  himself  a  Roman  Catholic, 
denounced  the  priestly  intimidation  that  was  estab- 
lished in  the  mouths  of  many  witnesses.  The  Ballot 
Act  followed  in  June,   but  these  things  could  not 


28  IRISH  MEMORIES 

soothe  the  wounded  spirit  of  the  men  who  had  trusted 
in  their  tenants. 

Startlingly,  the  death  of  a  Galway  landlord  followed 
on  the  election.  He  was  a  Roman  Catholic,  and 
belonged  to  one  of  the  oldest  families  in  the  county ; 
on  his  death-bed  he  desired  that  not  one  of  his  tenants 
should  touch  his  coffin.  It  was  not  in  that  spirit  that 
my  father,  a  few  weeks  afterwards,  faced  the  end. 
In  March  he  caught  cold  on  one  of  his  many  journeys 
of  inspection ;  he  was  taken  ill  at  the  Galway  Club, 
and  a  slow  pleurisy  followed.  He  lay  ill  for  a  time 
in  Galway,  and  the  longing  for  home  strengthened 
with  every  day. 

"  If  I  could  hear  the  cawing  of  the  Ross  crows  I 
should  get  well,"  he  said  pitifully. 

He  was  brought  home,  but  he  was  even  then  past 
hope. 

Some  scenes  remain  for  ever  on  the  memory.  In 
the  early  afternoon  of  the  23rd  of  April,  I  looked  down 
through  the  rails  of  the  well-staircase,  and  saw  Robert 
come  upstairs  to  his  father's  room,  his  tall  figure 
almost  supported  on  the  shoulder  of  one  of  the  men. 
All  was  then  over,  and  the  last  of  the  old  order  of  the 
Landlords  of  Ross  had  gone,  murmuring, 

"  I  am  ready  to  meet  Thee,  Eternal  Father  I  " 

Part  III 

With  the  death  of  my  father  the  curtain  fell  for 
ever  on  the  old  life  at  Ross,  the  stage  darkened,  and 
the  keening  of  the  tenants  as  they  followed  his  coffin 
was  the  last  music  of  the  piece. 

Two  or  three  months  afterwards  the  house  was 
empty.  In  the  blaze  of  the  June  weather,  the  hall 
door,  that  had  always  stood  open,  was  shut  and  barred, 
and,  in  the  stillness,  the  rabbits  ventured  up  to  the 


THE  MARTINS  OF  ROSS  29 

broad  limestone  steps  where  once  the  talk  of  the  house 
had  centred  in  the  summer  evenings.  For  the  first 
time  in  its  history  Ross  House  was  empty  ;  my  mother 
and  her  children  had  embarked  upon  life  in  Dublin, 
and  Robert,  like  his  father  before  him,  had  gone  to 
London  to  write  for  the  Press. 

For  five  or  six  years  Robert  lived  in  London.  He 
belonged  to  the  Arundel  Club,  where  lived  and  moved 
the  Bohemians  of  that  day,  the  perfect  and  single- 
hearted  Bohemians,  who  were,  perhaps,  survivals  of 
the  days  of  Richard  Steele,  and  have  now  vanished, 
unable  to  exist  in  the  shadeless  glare  of  Borough 
Councils.  Their  literary  power  was  unquestioned, 
the  current  of  their  talk  was  strong,  with  baffling  swirl 
and  eddy,  and  he  who  plunged  in  it  must  be  a  resource- 
ful and  strong  swimmer.  Linked  inseparably  with 
those  years  of  London  life  was  my  mother's  cousin, 
W.  G.  Wills,  the  playwright,  poet  and  painter,  who 
in  these  early  'seventies  had  suddenly  achieved  cele- 
brity as  a  dramatist,  with  the  tragedy  of  "  Charles  I." 
If  a  record  could  be  discovered  of  the  hierarchs  of 
the  Bohemians  it  would  open  of  itself  at  the  name 
of  Willie  Wills.  Great  gifts  of  play-writing  and  por- 
trait-painting rained  upon  him  a  reputation  that  he 
never  troubled  himself  about ;  he  remained  unalter- 
ably himself,  and,  clad  in  his  long  grey  ulster,  lived 
in  his  studio  a  life  unfettered  by  the  clock.  Of  his 
amazing  menage,  of  the  strange  and  starveling  hangers- 
on  that  followed  him  as  rooks  follow  the  plough,  to 
see  what  they  could  pick  up,  all  who  knew  him  had 
stories  to  tell.  Of  the  luncheons  at  his  studio,  where 
the  beefsteak  came  wrapped  in  newspaper,  and  the 
plates  that  were  hopelessly  dirty  were  thrown  out  of 
the  window ;  of  the  appointments  written  boldly  on 
the  wall  and  straightway  forgotten ;  the  litter  of 
canvases,  the  scraps  of  manuscript,  and  among  and 


80  IRISH  MEMORIES 

above  these  incidents,  the  tranquillity,  the  charm,  the 
agreeability  of  Willie  Wills.* 

Robert  has  found  him  and  my  mother  lunching 
together  gloriously  on  mutton  chops,  cooked  by  being 
flung  into  the  heart  of  the  fire. 

"  Just  one  more,  Nannie,"  said  the  dramatist,  as 
Robert  entered,  spearing  a  blazing  fragment  and  pre- 
senting it  to  his  boon  companion  with  a  courtly 
gesture. 

In  the  old  days  at  Ross,  Willie  Wills  was  a  frequent 
guest,  and  held  the  children  in  thrall — as  he  could 
always  ensnare  and  hold  children — with  his  exquisite 
story-telling.  Their  natural  guardians  withdrew  with 
confidence,  as  Willie  began,  with  enormous  gravity,  the 
tale  of  "  The  Little  Old  Woman  who  lived  in  the  Dark 
Wood,  and  had  one  long  yellow  Tooth,"  and,  returning 
after  an  interval,  heard  that  "  at  this  momentous  crisis 
seven  dead  men,  in  sacks,  staggered  into  the  room — !  " 
while,  in  the  fateful  pause  that  followed,  the  clamour 
of  the  children,  "  Go  on,  Willie  Wills  !  "  would  rise. 

Robert  and  Willie  Wills  were  in  many  aspects  of 
character  and  of  gifts  unlike,  yet  with  some  cousinly 
points  in  common.  Both  were  cultivated  and  literary, 
yet  seldom  read  a  book ;  both  were  sensitive  to  criti- 
cism, and  even  touchingly  anxious  for  approval ;  both 
were  delightful  companions  in  a  tete-d-tete.  Where 
sympathy  is  joined  with  imagination,  and  sense  of 
humour  with  both,  it  is  a  combination  hard  to  beat. 
Robert  regarded  routine  respectfully,  if  from  afar, 
and  sincerely  admired  the  efforts  of  those  who  en- 

*  Robert  has  told  me  how,  hearing  from  Willie  Wills  that  "  the 
money-market  was  tight,"  he  went  to  proffer  assistance.  In 
Willie's  studio  he  was  about  to  light  a  cigarette  with  a  half-burned 
''spill"  of  paper,  when  he  became  aware  that  the  "spill"  was  a 
five-pound  note,  an  unsuspected  relic  of  more  prosperous  times, 
that  had  already  been  used  for  a  like  purpose.  E.  OE.  S. 


THE  MARTINS  OF  ROSS  81 

deavoured  to  systematise  his  belongings.  Willie  Wills 
was  superbly  indifferent  to  surroundings,  yet  took  a 
certain  pride  in  new  clothes.  The  real  points  of 
resemblance  were  in  heart ;  the  chivalrous  desire 
to  help  the  weak,  and  the  indelible  filial  instinct  that 
glows  in  natures  of  the  best  sort,  and  marks  un- 
failingly a  good  son  as  a  good  fellow  through  all  the 
nations  of  the  world. 

Throughout  these  London  days  Robert  wrote  for 
the  Globe  and  other  papers,  chiefly  paragraphs  and 
light  articles,  that  ran  from  his  pen  with  the  real 
enjoyment  that  he  found  in  writing  them  at  the  last 
moment.  He  seemed  to  do  better  when  working 
against  time  than  when  he  had  large  days  in  hand  and 
a  well-ordered  writing-table  inviting  his  presence. 
He  found  these  things  thoroughly  uninspiring,  and 
facilities  for  correcting  his  work  were  odious  to  him. 
Proofs  he  never  looked  at ;  he  said  he  couldn't  face 
them ;  probably  because  of  the  critical  power  that 
underlay  his  facility. 

London  with  Robert  in  it  was  then,  as  ever,  for 
Robert's  family,  a  place  with  a  different  meaning 
— a  place  of  theatre  tickets,  of  luncheons,  of  news- 
paper news  viewed  from  within,  of  politics  and 
actors  reduced  to  human  personalities.  It  was  a 
fixed  rule  that  he  should  meet  his  female  rela- 
tives on  their  arrival  at  Euston ;  it  is  on  record 
that  he  was  once  in  time,  but  it  is  also  recorded 
that  on  that  occasion  the  train  was  forty  minutes 
late.  The  hum  of  London  seasons  filled  his  brain ; 
London  may  be  attractive  or  repellent,  but  it  will 
be  heard,  and  it  made  strong  music  for  a  nature 
that  loved  the  stir  of  men  and  the  encounter  of  minds. 
Four  hundred  miles  away  lay  Ross  in  the  whispering 
stillness  of  its  summer  woods,  and  the  monotony  of 
its  winter  winds,  producing  heavy  bags  of  woodcock 


82  IRISH  MEMORIES 

after  its  kind,  while  its  master  "  shot  folly  as  she  flew," 
and  found  his  game  in  the  canards  of  Fleet  Street  and 
Westminster.  It  was  inevitable  as  things  stood,  but 
in  that  alienation  both  missed  much  that  lay  in  the 
power  of  each  to  give. 

It  was  while  Robert  was  living  in  London  that  the 
resignation  of  Mr.  Gladstone  took  place.  Out  of  the 
ensuing  general  election  in  the  spring  of  1873  came 
Isaac  Butt  and  his  lieutenants,  with  a  party  of  sixty 
Home  Rulers  behind  them ;  Ireland  had  sent  them 
instead  of  the  dozen  or  so  of  the  previous  Parliament, 
and  it  was  said  that  Ireland  had  done  it  in  the  new- 
found shelter  of  the  Ballot  Act.  Robert  knew,  as 
anyone  brought  up  as  he  was  must  know,  that  for 
most  of  Ireland  the  Ballot  Act  could  not  be  a  shelter. 
The  Gal  way  election  of  1872  had  shown  to  all  in  whose 
hands  the  great  power  of  the  franchise  lay.  One 
indefensible  position  had  been  replaced  by  another, 
feudal  power  by  clerical,  and  only  those  who  knew 
Robert  well,  understood  how  hard  it  hit  him.  He 
shot  at  Ross  occasionally,  he  visited  it  now  and  then, 
and  at  every  visit  his  perceptive  nature  was  aware  that 
a  new  spirit  was  abroad  ;  in  spite  of  the  genuine  and 
traditional  feeling  of  the  people  for  their  old  allies, 
in  spite  of  their  good  breeding,  and  their  anxious  desire 
to  conceal  the  rift.  The  separation  had  begun,  and 
only  those  who  have  experienced  it  will  understand 
how  strange,  how  wounding  it  is. 

It  was  not  universal,  and  theoretical  hostility  strove 
always  with  the  soft  voice  of  memory.  My  father  was 
still  to  all,  "  The  Masther,  the  Lord  have  mercy  on 
him  " ;  the  Martins  were  still  "  The  Family,"  who 
could  do  no  wrong,  whose  defects,  if  such  were  ad- 
mitted, were  revered.  "  The  Martin  family  hadn't 
good  sight,"  said  a  tenant,  "  but  sure  the  people  say 
that  was  a  proof  of  their  nobility." 


THE  MARTINS  OF  ROSS  88 

There  is  an  incident  of  one  of  Robert's  visits  to 
Ross  that  is  not  too  small  to  be  worth  recording.  He 
had  given  his  Gordon  setter,  Rose,  to  a  friend  who  lived 
five  miles  away  from  Ross,  and  she  had  settled  down 
with  resignation  to  her  new  life.  Trained  in  the  lan- 
guage of  the  drawing-room,  she  may  have  heard  it 
said  that  Robert  was  at  Ross,  or  her  deep  and  in- 
scrutable perceptions  may  have  received  a  wave  of 
warning  of  his  nearness.  Whatever  it  was  that 
prompted  her,  the  old  dog  made  her  way  alone  to 
Ross,  and  found  her  master  there. 

In  1877  Robert  turned  his  steps  again  to  Dublin, 
and  before  the  year  was  out  he  was  living  with  his 
grandmother,  and  was  immersed  in  the  life,  political, 
theatrical  and  social,  of  Dublin. 

My  mother's  mother,  Mrs.  Fox,  was,  as  has  been  said, 
a  daughter  of  Chief  Justice  Bushe,  and  was  a  notable 
member  of  a  remarkable  band  of  brothers  and  sisters. 
Strongly  humorous,  strongly  affectionate,  a  doughty 
politician,  original  in  every  idea,  and  delightful  in 
her  prejudices  ;  a  black  letter  authority  on  Shake- 
speare and  Scott,  a  keen  debater  upon  Carlyle,  upon 
Miss  Rhoda  Broughton,  upon  all  that  was  worth 
reading.  I  can  see  her  declaiming  "  Henry  IV " 
to  Robert  and  his  brethren,  with  irrepressible  gestures 
of  her  hand,  with  a  big  voice  for  Falstaff,  and  a  small 
voice  for  Mine  Hostess,  and  an  eye  that  raked  the 
audience  lest  it  should  waver  in  attentiveness.  Even 
as  clearly  can  I  see  her,  as,  at  a  time  of  crisis, — it  was, 
I  think,  after  Gladstone's  attack  on  Trinity  College, — 
she  sprang  from  her  chair,  and  speechlessly  wrung 
the  hand  of  someone  who  had  rushed  into  her  dining- 
room,  crying, 

"  Gladstone  has  resigned  !  " 

That  was  how  she  and  her  family  took  their  politics. 

She  loved  Robert  with  a  touching  devotion,  and  I 

D 


34  IRISH  MEMORIES 

think  those  days  in  Herbert  Street  were  deeply  woven 
into  his  memory.  It  was  a  quiet  street,  with  a  long 
strip  of  grass  and  hawthorns,  instead  of  houses, 
forming  one  side  of  it,  part  of  the  grounds  of  the 
convent  that  stood  at  the  end.  There  the  birds  sang, 
and  a  little  convent  bell  spelt  out  the  Angelus  with  a 
friendly  voice ;  the  old  red-brick  house,  with  its  old 
furniture  and  its  old  china,  the  convent  bell,  with  its 
reminder  of  cloistered  calm,  all  made  a  suitable  setting 
for  the  strictly  ordered,  cultured  life  of  the  old  lady 
who  bestowed  on  them  their  appropriateness. 

In  the  spring  of  '78  Robert  was  in  the  thick  of 
amateur  theatricals.  He  was  never  a  first-rate  actor, 
but  he  was  a  thoroughly  reliable  one  ;  he  always  knew 
his  part,  though  none  could  say  how  or  when  he 
learned  it,  he  could  "  gag "  with  confidence,  and 
dropped  on  to  his  cue  unerringly,  and  he  had  that 
liking  for  his  audience  that  is  the  shortest  cut  to 
being  on  good  terms  with  them.  His  gift  in  ready 
verse  was  not  allowed  to  remain  idle.  He  wrote 
prologues,  he  arranged  singing  quadrilles ;  when  the 
Sheridan  Club  had  a  guest  whom  it  delighted  to  honour, 
it  was  Robert  who  wrote  and  recited  the  ode  for  the 
occasion  ;  an  ode  that  never  attempted  too  much,  and 
just  touched  the  core  of  the  matter. 

With  the  close  of  the  'seventies  came  the  burst 
into  the  open  of  the  Irish  Parliamentary  Party,  in 
full  cry.  Like  hounds  hunting  confusedly  in  covert, 
they  had,  in  the  hands  of  Isaac  Butt,  kept  up  a  certain 
amount  of  noise  and  excitement,  keen,  yet  uncertain 
as  to  what  game  was  on  foot.  From  1877  it  was 
Parnell  who  carried  the  horn,  a  grim,  disdainful 
Master,  whose  pack  never  dared  to  get  closer  to  him 
than  the  length  of  his  thong ;  but  he  laid  them  on 
the  line,  and  they  ran  it  like  wolves. 

Up  to  1877  crops  and  prices  were  good,  even  re- 


THE  MARTINS  OF  ROSS  85 

markably  so,  and  rents  were  paid.  Following  that 
year  came,  like  successive  blows  on  the  same  spot, 
three  bad  harvests  that  culminated  in  the  disastrous 
season  of  1879-80.  It  was  in  1847  that  the  Famine 
broke  the  heart  and  the  life  of  O'Connell ;  it  was  the 
partial  failure  of  the  crop  of  '79  and  '80  that  created 
Parnell's  opportunity — so  masterful  a  factor  has  been 
the  potato  in  the  destinies  of  Irishmen. 

In  1879  the  rents  began  to  fail.  The  distress  was 
not  comparable  to  that  of  '47,  but  it  brought  about 
a  revolution  infinitely  greater.  At  its  close  it  left  the 
Irish  tenant  practically  owner  of  his  land,  with  a  rent 
fixed  by  Government,  and  the  feudal  link  with  the 
landlord  was  broken  for  ever.  On  the  Ross  estate  a 
new  agent  had  inaugurated  a  new  policy,  excellent 
in  theory,  abhorrent  to  those  whom  it  concerned,  the 
"  striping  "  of  many  of  the  holdings,  in  order  to  give 
to  each  tenant  an  equal  share  of  good  and  bad  land. 
Anyone  who  knows  the  Irish  tenant  will  immediately 
understand  what  it  means  to  interfere  with  his  land, 
and,  above  all  things,  to  give  to  another  tenant  any 
part  of  it.  It  was  done  nevertheless.  The  long  lines 
of  stone  wall  ran  symmetrically  parallel  over  hill  and 
pasture  and  bog,  and  the  symmetry  was  hateful  and 
the  equality  bitter  to  those  most  concerned.  It  is 
probable  that  the  discontent  sank  in  and  prepared  the 
way  for  the  mischief  that  was  coming. 

By  the  winter  of  1879  the  pinch  had  become  severe. 
The  tenants,  by  this  time  two  or  three  years  in  arrear, 
did  not  meet  their  liabilities,  and  most  landlords  went 
without  the  greater  part  of  their  income.  Robert, 
among  many  others,  began  to  learn  what  it  was  to  be 
deprived  of  the  moderate  income  left  to  him  after  the 
charges  on  his  estate  were  paid.  He  never  again 
received  any. 

Three  Relief  Funds  in  Dublin  coped  as  best  they 

D  2 


86  IRISH  MEMORIES 

could  with  the  distress  of  the  Irish  poor.  One  of 
them  was  worked  with  great  enthusiasm  and  organ- 
ising power  by  the  Duchess  of  Marlborough,  and  by 
every  means  known  to  a  most  capable  leader  of  Society 
she  lured  from  Society  of  all  grades  a  ready  *'rate  in 
aid."  Entertainments  sprang  up — theatricals,  bazaars, 
concerts — that  helped  the  Fund  and  at  the  same  time 
put  heart  into  the  flagging  Dublin  season,  and  Robert 
was  in  the  thick  of  charitable  endeavour.  His  first 
Irish  song,  the  leader  of  a  long  line  that  culminated 
later  in  "  Ballyhooly,"  was  written  at  about  this 
time,  "  The  Vagrants  of  Erin,"  a  swinging  tune,  that 
marched  to  words  National  enough  for  any  party. 

"  Give  me  your  hand,  if  owld  Ireland's  the  land 
From  which  you  may  chance  to  be  farin'," 

it  began,  with  all  its  author's  geniality,  and  the  Irish 
audience  responded  to  its  first  chords  with  drowning 
applause.  Once,  as  he  sang  it,  accompanying  himself, 
and  swinging  with  the  tune,  the  music  stool  began  to 
sway  in  ominous  accord.  "  First  it  bent,  and  syne 
it  brake,"  and  Robert  staggered  to  his  feet,  but  just 
in  time. 

"  This  is  a  pantomime  song,  with  a  breakdown  in 
it !  "  he  said,  while  the  head  of  the  stool  rolled  from 
its  broken  stalk  and  trundled  down  the  stage. 

He  had  the  gift  of  making  friends  with  his  audience  ; 
as  he  came  on  to  the  platform  to  sing,  his  air  of  enjoy- 
ment, his  friendly  eyes,  even  his  single  eyeglass,  had 
already  done  half  the  business.  He  took  them,  as  it 
were,  to  his  bosom,  and  whatever  might  be  their  grade, 
he  did  his  best  for  them.  In  spite  of  the  liberties  he 
took  with  time,  words  and  tune,  he  was  singularly 
easy  to  accompany,  for  anyone  acquainted  with  his 
methods  and  prepared  to  cast  himself  (it  was  generally 
herself)  adrift  with  him,  and  trust  to  ear  instead  of 


THE  MARTINS  OF  ROSS  87 

to  book.  However  far  afield  Robert  might  range, 
whatever  stories  he  told,  he  would  surely  drop  back 
into  the  key  and  the  words,  like  a  wild  duck  into  the 
water,  with  a  just  sufficient  hint  to  the  waiting 
coadjutor  that  his  circling  flight  was  ending.  His 
topical  songs  of  those  early  'eighties  have  died,  as  all 
of  their  kind  must  die.  He  wrote  down  nothing,  the 
occasion  is  forgotten,  and  the  brain  in  which  they  had 
their  being  has  passed  from  us.  One  or  two  points 
and  hits  remain  with  me.  In  the  year  that  Shotover 
won  the  Oaks,  a  commemorating  verse  ended  : 

"  Of  course  she  was  Shot  over, 
She'd  a  Cannon  on  her  back  !  " 

In  one  of  the  songs,  the  explanation  of  the  failure 
of  the  ships  Alert  and  Discovery  to  reach  the  North 
Pole  was  that  "  those  on  the  Discovery  were  not  on 
the  Alert." 

In  spite  of  the  thunderous  political  background  of 
the  early  'eighties,  in  spite  of  the  empty  pockets  of 
those  dependent  on  Irish  rents,  in  spite  of  the  crime 
that  drew  forth  the  Crimes  Act,  the  fun  and  the  spirit 
were  inextinguishable  in  Dublin. 

But  the  political  background  was  growing  blacker, 
and  the  thunder  more  loud.  Gladstone's  Land  Act 
of  1881  had  not  pacified  Ireland,  even  though  it  made 
the  tenant  practically  owner  of  his  land,  even  though 
the  rents  were  fixed  by  Government  officials,  whose 
mission  was  to  coax  sedition  to  complacence,  if  not  to 
loyalty.  Ireland  was  falling  into  chaos.  Arrears  of 
rent.  Relief  Committees,  No  Rent  manifestoes.  Plan 
of  Campaign  evictions.  Funds  for  Distressed  Irish 
Ladies,  outrages,  boycotting,  and  Parnell  stirring  the 
"  Seething  Pot  "  with  a  steady  hand,  while  his  sub- 
ordinates stoked  the  fire.  Boycotting  was  responded 
to  by  the  Property  Defence  Association,  and  in  1882 


38  IRISH  MEMORIES 

Robert  went  forth  under  its  auspices  as  an  "  Emer- 
gency man."  His  business  was  to  visit  the  boycotted 
landlords  and  farmers  and  to  supply  them  with  men — 
from  the  North,  for  the  most  part — to  do  the  farm 
work.  Those  who  do  not  know  Ireland,  and  for  whom 
the  word  boycotting  has  no  personal  associations,  can 
hardly  realise  what  that  dark  time  meant  to  its 
victims.  The  owners  of  boycotted  lands,  unable  to 
get  food  or  necessaries  of  any  kind  from  the  local 
tradespeople,  imported  supplies  from  England  and 
the  North,  and  opened  stores  in  their  stable  yards 
for  such  of  the  faithful  as  stood  firm.  Ladies,  totally 
unaccustomed  to  outdoor  labour,  saved  crops  and 
herded  cattle,  matters  that  in  themselves  might  have 
been  found  interesting,  if  arduous,  but  the  terror  was 
over  all,  and  in  face  of  bitter  antagonism  the  task 
was  too  great. 

It  was  at  this  work  that  Robert  knew,  for  the  first 
time,  what  it  was  to  have  every  man's  hand  against 
him,  to  meet  the  stare  of  hatred,  the  jeer,  and  the  side- 
long curse  ;  to  face  endless  drives  on  outside  cars,  with 
his  revolver  in  his  hand ;  to  plan  the  uphill  tussle  with 
boycotted  crops,  and  cattle  for  which  a  market  could 
scarcely  be  found  ;  to  know  the  imminence  of  death, 
when,  by  accidentally  choosing  one  of  two  roads,  he 
evaded  the  man  with  a  gun  who  had  gone  out  to  wait 
for  him.  It  taught  him  much  of  difficult  men  and 
of  tangled  politics,  he  learned  how  to  make  the  best 
of  a  bad  business,  and  how  to  fight  in  a  corner ;  it 
made  him  a  proficient  in  Irish  affairs,  and  it  added  to 
his  opinions  a  seriousness  based  on  strong  and  moving 
points. 

Gladstone  had  faced  a  dangerous  Ireland  with 
concession  in  one  hand  and  coercion  in  the  other, 
and  however  either  may  go  in  single  harness,  there  is 
no  doubt  that  they  cannot  with  success  be  driven  as 


THE  MARTINS  OF  ROSS  89 

a  pair.  There  followed  the  Maamtrasna  murders,  the 
extermination  of  the  Huddy  family,  the  assassination 
in  Phoenix  Park  of  Lord  Frederick  Cavendish  and  Mr. 
Burke,  the  attempted  assassination  of  Judge  Lawson 
opposite  Kildare  Street  Club.  When  Robert  was 
entering  into  the  deep  places  of  his  last  illness,  he 
spoke  with  all  his  wonted  grasp  of  details  of  those 
webs  of  conspiracy.  Tradesmen  who  came  from 
Dublin  to  work  in  Kylemore  Castle  (then  the  property 
of  Mr.  Mitchell  Henry)  infected  the  mind  of  Northern 
Connemara  with  the  idea  that  assassination  was  a 
fitting  expression  of  political  opinion.  The  murders 
of  the  Maamtrasna  district  followed.  The  stately 
mountains  beheld  the  struggle  and  the  slaughter,  and 
the  sweet  waters  of  Lough  Mask  closed  upon  the 
victims. 

Month  by  month  the  net  of  conspiracy  was  woven, 
and  life  was  the  prize  played  for  in  wonderful  silence 
and  darkness,  and  murder  was  achieved  like  a  victory 
at  chess.  We  know  how  the  victories  were  paid  for. 
I  do  not  forget  the  face  of  Timothy  Kelly,  as  he  stood 
in  the  dock  and  was  tried  for  participation  in  the 
Phoenix  Park  murders.  There  is  a  pallor  of  fear  that 
is  remembered  when  once  seen,  and  to  see  that  sick 
and  desperate  paleness  on  the  face  of  a  boy  of  seven- 
teen is  to  feel  for  ever  the  mystery  and  enormity  of 
his  crime,  and  the  equal  immensity  of  the  punishment. 
Unforgettable,  too,  is  the  moment  when  his  mother 
took  her  seat  in  the  witness  chair  to  support  the  alibi 
put  forward  on  his  behalf,  and  looked  her  boy  in  his 
white  and  stricken  face,  white  and  stricken  as  he.  Yet 
she  did  not  waver,  and  gave  her  evidence  quietly  and 
collectedly. 

A  phrase  or  two  from  the  speech  for  the  defence  has 
fixed  itself  in  the  memory. 

"  Take  the   scales   of  Justice,"   said   the   Counsel, 


40  IRISH  MEMORIES 

with  a  wide  gesture  of  appeal  towards  the  jury  ;  "  lift 
them  far  above  the  reach  of  passion  and  prejudice, 
into  those  serener  regions  above  where  Justice  herself 
reigns  supreme " 

Death  brooded  palpably  over  the  brown  and  grey 
Court,  and  held  the  tense  faces  of  all  in  his  thrall,  and 
weighted  every  syllable  of  the  speeches.  Never  was 
the  irrelevancy  of  murder  as  a  political  weapon  made 
more  clear,  and  the  fearful  appropriateness  of  capital 
punishment  seemed  clear  too,  mystery  requited  with 
mystery. 

When  we  came  into  the  Court  we  were  told  that  the 
jury  would  disagree,  there  being  at  least  one  "  In- 
vincible "  on  the  list,  and  it  was  so.  But  with  the 
next  trial  the  end  was  reached,  and  the  trapped 
creature  in  the  dock,  with  the  men  who  were  his 
confederates,  went  down  into  the  oblivion  into  which 
they  had  thrust  their  prey. 

Many  years  ago  a  mission  priest  delivered  a  sermon 
in  Irish  in  the  bare  white  chapel  that  stands  high  on 
a  hill  above  Ross  Lake.  I  remember  one  sentence, 
translated  for  me  by  one  of  the  congregation. 

"  Oh  black  seas  of  Eternity,  without  height  or 
depth,  bay,  brink,  or  shore  !  How  can  anyone  look  into 
your  depths  and  neglect  the  salvation  of  his  soul !  "  ^ 

It  expresses  all  that  need  now  be  remembered  of 
the  Phoenix  Park  murders. 


'  This  sentence  was  subsequently  introduced  in  the  article  "  At 
the  River's  Edge,"  by  Martin  Ross,   The  Englishwoman's  Review. 


CHAPTER  II 


It  is  a  commonplace,  even  amounting  to  a  bromide, 
to  speak  of  the  breadth,  the  depth,  and  the  length 
of  the  ties  of  Irish  kinship.  In  Ireland  it  is  not  so 
much  Love  that  hath  us  in  the  net  as  Relationship. 
Pedigree  takes  precedence  even  of  politics,  and  in  all 
affairs  that  matter  it  governs  unquestioned.  It  is 
sufficient  to  say  that  the  candidate  for  any  post, 
in  any  walk  of  life — is  "  a  cousin  of  me  own,  by  the 
Father " — "a  sort  of  a  relation  o'  mine,  by  the 
Mother  " — and  support  of  the  unfittest  is  condoned, 
even  justified. 

I  am  uncertain  if  the  practice  of  deifying  a  relation- 
ship by  the  employment  of  the  definite  article  is 
peculiar  to  Munster,  or  even  to  Ireland.  "  The  faw- 
ther,"  "  the  a'nt."  He  who  speaks  to  me  of  my 
father  as  "  The  Fawther,"  implies  a  sort  of  humorous 
intimacy,  a  respect  just  tinged  with  facetiousness, 
that  is  quite  lacking  in  the  severe  directness  of  "  your 
father." 

There  was  once  a  high  magnate  of  a  self-satisfied 
provincial  town  (its  identity  is  negligible).  An  ex- 
hibition was  presently  to  be  held  there,  and  it  chanced 
that  a  visit  from  Royalty  occurred  shortly  before  the 
completion  of  the  arrangements.  It  also  chanced 
that   a   possible   visit   to   Ireland   of  a   still   greater 


42  IRISH  MEMORIES 

Personage  impended — (this  was  several  years  ago). 
The  lesser  Royalty  partook  of  lunch  with  the  magnate, 
and  the  latter  broached  the  question  of  a  State  opening 
of  the  exhibition  by  the  august  visitor  to  be. 

"  When  ye  go  back  to  London,  now,"  he  beguiled, 
"  coax  the  Brother  !  " 

How  winning  is  the  method  of  address  !  It  has  in 
it  something  of  the  insidious  coquetry  of  the  little 
dog  who  skips,  in  affected  artlessness,  uninvited,  upon 
your  knee. 

I  have  strayed  from  my  text,  which  was  the  potency 
of  the  net  of  relationship.  Being  Irish,  I  have  to 
acknowledge  its  spell,  and  I  think  it  is  indisputable 
that  a  thread,  however  slender,  of  kinship  adds  a 
force  to  friendship. 

Martin's  mother  and  mine  were  first  cousins,  grand- 
daughters of  Chief  Justice  Charles  Kendal  Bushe,  and 
of  his  wife,  Anne  Crampton.  I  have  heard  my  mother 
assert  that  she  had  seventy  first  cousins,  all  grand- 
children of  "  The  Chief,"  but  I  think  there  was  a  touch 
of  fancy  about  this.  There  is  something  sounding 
and  sumptuous  about  the  number  seventy,  and  some 
remembrance  of  Ahab  and  his  seventy  relatives  may 
have  been  in  it.  In  her  memoir  of  her  brother  Robert, 
Martin  has  given  some  suggestion  of  the  remarkable 
charm  and  influence  of  these  great-grandparents  of 
ours.  The  adoration  that  both  of  them  inspired 
distils  like  a  perfume  from  every  record  of  them. 
They  seem  to  have  obliterated  all  their  rival  grand- 
fathers and  grandmothers.  One  reflects  that  each  of 
the  seventy  first  cousins  must  have  possessed  four 
grandparents,  yet,  in  the  radiance  of  this  couple,  the 
alternative  grandpapas  and  grandmammas  appear  to 
have  been,  in  the  regard  of  their  grandchildren,  no 
more  than  shadows. 

They  lived  in  a  strangely  interesting  time,  the  time 


''THE  CHIEF''  43 

of  the  Union,  when  there  was  room  in  the  upper  classes 
for  each  individual  to  be  known  to  each,  and  the  pro- 
portion of  those  that  governed,  and  those  that  were 
governed,  was  as  the  players  in  an  international 
cricket  match  to  the  lookers-on  ;  and  it  is  not  too  much 
to  boast  that,  out  of  a  very  brilliant  team,  there 
was  no  better  innings  played  than  that  of  Charles 
Kendal  Bushe.  When,  as  in  "  the  '98,"  the  lookers-on 
attempted  to  join  in  the  game,  the  result  exemplified 
their  incapacity  and  the  advantages  of  the  existing 
arrangement. 

Martin  had  been  given  by  her  mother  a  boxful  of 
old  family  letters ;  one  of  those  pathetic  collections 
of  letters  that  no  one  either  wants,  or  looks  at,  or 
feels  justified  in  burning.  I  know  not  for  how  many 
years  they  had  been  hidden  away.  We  had  talked, 
every  now  and  then,  of  examining  them,  but  the 
examination  had  been  postponed  for  a  more  conve- 
nient season  that  never  came.  Now  life  is  emptier, 
and  time  seems  of  less  value  ;  I  have  read  them  all, 
and  I  think  that  some  extracts  from  them  will  not 
come  amiss  among  these  memories. 

It  would  require  a  sounder  historian  than  I,  and  one 
who  had  specialised  in  Irish  affairs  of  the  latter  years 
of  the  eighteenth  and  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth 
centuries,  to  deal  adequately  with  these  old  papers. 
The  Chief  Justice  and  his  wife  lived  intensely,  in  the 
very  heart  of  the  most  intense  time,  probably,  that 
Ireland  has  ever  known.  They  knew  all  the  rebel 
leaders,  Wolfe  Tone,  Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald,  and  the 
rest  of  the  splendid  romantics  who  fought  and  died, 
and  lit  with  the  white  flame  of  devotion  one  page  at 
least  of  Ireland's  history.  The  names  of  Plunket, 
Grattan,  Saurin,  later,  O' Council,  and  others  less  well 
known,  are  found  in  many  of  these  letters,  and  there  are 
valentines  from  "Jemmy  Saurin,"  apostrophising"  the 


44  IRISH  MEMORIES 

blue  eyes  of  Kitty  "  (one  of  the  Chief's  daughters,  and 
grandmother  of  "  Martin  Ross  ") ;  genuine,  perhaps, 
but  more  probably  faked  by  the  young  lady's  heartless 
relatives  ;  anagrams  upon  the  name  of  Charles  Kendal 
Bushe,  and  an  epigram,  written  by  C.  K.  B.  himself, 
which  has  a  very  charming  deftness,  and  shall  be 
transcribed  here. 

To  Chloe 
{To  accompany  the  gift  of  a  watch) 

Among  our  fashionable  Bands, 

No  wonder  Time  should  love  to  linger, 

Allowed  to  place  his  two  riide  hands 
Where  others  dare  not  lay  a  finger. 

The  more  I  investigate  the  contents  of  the  old  letter 
box  the  more  fascinating  they  prove  themselves  to  be. 

I  must,  at  all  events,  endeavour  to  refrain  from 
irrelevant  quotation — (even  regretfully  omitting  "  The 
cure  for  Ellen  P.'s  spots.  Kate  writes  me  word  her 
face  is  now  as  clear  as  chrystal  ") — and  will  try  to 
deal  only  with  such  of  the  contents  of  the  box  as 
come  legitimately  within  my  scope. 

The  Chief's  letters  cover  a  wide  period,  from  about 
1795  (a  couple  of  years  after  his  marriage)  to  1837. 
One  does  not,  perhaps,  find  in  them  the  brilliance  that 
is  associated  with  his  name  in  public  life  and  in  general 
society.  Those  from  which  I  have  made  extracts 
were  written  to  his  wife.  Deeply  woven  in  them  is 
the  devotion  to  her  that  was  the  mainspring  of  his 
life,  and  in  works  of  devotion  one  need  not  expect  to 
find  epigram.^ 

In  one  of  them,  written  in  1807,  he  writes  from 
Dublin,  to  her,  in  the  country,  telling  her  of  "  an 
unfortunate  business  "  in  which  he,  "  without  any 
personal  ill-will  to  anyone,"   "  found  it  his  duty  to 

1  In  these,  and  all  the  following  letters,  I  have  left  the  spelling, 
punctuation,  etc.,  unchanged. 


''THE  CHIEF"  45 

take  a  part."  He  deplores  that  "  among  the  Members 
of  the  Bar  coldness  and  jealousy  prevail,  where  there 
had  been  the  utmost  harmony  and  unanimity."  *'  It 
is  not  in  my  nature  to  like  such  a  state  of  things,"  he 
says,  and,  I  believe,  says  truly,  "  and  when  I  am  alone 
my  spirits  are  affected  by  it  in  a  way  that  I  wou'd  not 
for  the  World  confess  to  anyone  but  you.  I  am  told 
that  I  am  libell'd  in  the  newspapers,  which  I  dont 
know  for  I  have  not  read  them,  and  which  I  wou'd  not 
care  about,  from  the  same  motives  that  have  so  often, 
to  your  knowledge,  made  me  indifferent  about  being 
prais'd  in  them.  .  .  .  You  remember  on  a  former 
trying  occasion  how  I  acted  and  I  can  never  forget 
the  heroism  with  which  you  supported  me  and  en- 
courag'd  me  in  a  conduct  which  was  apparently 
ruinous  in  its  consequences  to  yourself  and  our  darling 
Babies.  Ever  since  you  left  this,  my  mind  has  been 
agitated  in  the  way  I  have  described  to  you.  I  am 
seven  years  older  and  my  nerves  twenty  years  older 
than  at  the  period  of  the  Union.  Judge,  then,  the 
delight  I  feel  at  the  prospect  of  seeing  again  so  soon, 
the  bosom  friend  dearer  than  all,  the  only  person  upon 
whose  heart  I  can  repose  my  own  when  weary — I 
judge  of  it  by  the  pleasure  I  feel  in  thus  unburthening 
myself  to  you,  and  in  the  consciousness  that  the  very 
writing  of  this  letter  has  given  me  the  only  warm, 
comfortable  and  confidential  glow  of  heart  which  I 
have  felt  since  you  left  me.  Adieu  beloved  Nan — 
Pray  burn  this  immediately  "  (twice  underlined)  "  and 
let  no  human  being  learn  anything  of  those  thoughts 
which  to  you  alone  I  wou'd  communicate.  Ever 
yours  C.  K.  B." 

It  is  a  hundred  and  more  years  since  this  injunction 
was  written.  The  paper  is  stained  and  brittle,  and  I 
think  that  perhaps  a  tear,  perhaps  also  a  kiss  or  two, 
have  contributed  a  little  to  the  staining.     But  though 


46  IRISH  MEMORIES 

she  disobeyed  him  I  beHeve  he  has  forgiven  her.  I 
hope  he  will  also  forgive  a  great-granddaughter  who 
has  chanced  upon  this  record  of  a  disobedience  that 
few  could  blame  and  that  any  lover  would  extol. 

Long  afterwards  the  same  thought  came  in  nearly 
the  same  words  to  another  Irishman,  the  poet,  George 
Darley,  and  he  wrote  those  lines  that  have  in  them 
the  same  note  of  whispered  tenderness  that  still 
breathes  from  the  discoloured  page  of  the  letter  that 
should  have  been  burned  a  hundred  years  ago. 

"  One  in  whose  gentle  bosom  I 

Can  pour  my  inmost  heart  of  woes, 
Like  the  care-burthened  honey-fly 
That  hides  his  murmurs  in  the  rose." 


I  have  said  that  it  was  an  interesting  time  to  be 
alive  in,  this  junction  of  the  eighteenth  and  nineteenth 
centuries.  That  the  Chief's  sympathies  were,  as  I 
have  already  mentioned,  with  the  men  on  the  losing 
side  is  very  well  known.  In  one  of  the  early  letters 
to  his  wife,  he  speaks  of  having  had  "  a  very  prosperous 
circuit,"  and  says  his  business  was  "  pretty  general, 
not  confin'd  to  friends  or  United  Irishmen,  tho  these 
latter  have  been  no  bad  friends  to  me  either."  He 
did  not  defend  their  methods,  but  he  stood  by  his 
friends,  and  to  the  end  of  his  life  he  stood  by  his 
opinions. 

In  a  letter  written  by  Mrs.  Bushe  to  their  son  Charles, 
at  Castlehaven,  after  the  death  of  the  Chief  (that  is 
to  say,  forty-three  years,  at  least,  after  the  Act  of 
Union),  she  speaks  of  the  chaotic  state  of  the  country, 
and  the  ruin  caused  by  the  arbitrary  and  ill-considered 
enforcement  of  the  recent  Poor  Law  legislation. 
"  Useless  however  to  complain.  England  has  the 
might  which  supersedes  the  right,  and  we  are  punished 
now  for  our  own  folly  in  consenting  to  the  Union  ! 


^'THE   CHIEF''  47 

Just  what  your  Father  predicted — *  when  Ireland 
gives  up  the  rights  that  she  has,  what  right  has  she 
then  to  complain  ?  ' — How  true  this  little  squib  of 

the  poor  dear  C "  (Chief).   "  Happy  for  him  he  did 

not  live  to  see  the  ruin  he  predicted  !  " 

The  following  account  of  a  visit  to  Edgeworths- 
town  forms  part  of  a  letter,  written  at  Omagh  and  dated 
Monday,  August  16th,  1810.  It  is  from  Chief  Justice 
Bushe  to  his  wife  ;  the  beginning  portion  of  the  letter 
is  printed  in  the  Appendix  I.  (page  332). 

"  I  am  not  surpriz'd  that  you  ask  about  Edge  worths- 
town,  and  I  can  only  tell  you  that  every  thing  which 
Smyly  has  often  said  to  us  in  praise  of  it  is  true  and 
unexaggerated.  Society  in  that  house  is  certainly 
on  the  best  plan  I  have  ever  met  with.  Edgeworth 
is  a  very  clever  fellow  of  much  talent,  and  tho  not 
deeply  inform' d  on  any  subject,  is  highly  (which  is 
consistent  with  being  superficially)  so  in  all.  He  talks 
a  great  deal  and  very  pleasantly  and  loves  to  exhibit 
and  perhaps  obtrude  what  he  wou'd  be  so  justifiably 
vain  of  (his  daughter  and  her  works)  if  you  did  not 
trace  that  pride  to  his  predominant  Egotism,  and  see 
that  he  admires  her  because  she  is  his  child,  and  her 
works  because  they  are  his  Grand  Children.  Mrs. 
Edgeworth  is  uncommonly  agreeable  and  has  been 
and  not  long  ago  very  pretty.  She  is  a  perfect  Scholar, 
and  at  the  same  time  a  good  Mother  and  housewife. 
She  is  an  excellent  painter,  like  yourself,  and  like  you 
has  been  oblig'd  by  producing  Originals  to  give  up 
Copying  :  She  is  you  know  a  5th  or  6th  Wife  and  her 
last  child  was  his  22d.  Two  Miss  Sneyds,  amiable 
old  maids,  live  with  him.  They  are  sisters  of  one  of 
his  wives,  a  beautiful  and  celebrated  Honoria  Sneyd, 
mention'd  in  Miss  Seward's  Monody  on  Major  Andre 
and  known  by  her  misfortune  in  having  been  betroth'd 
to  that  poor  fellow.     They  are  Litchfield  people  of 


48  IRISH  MEMORIES 

the  old  literary  set  of  the  Garricks  Dr.  Johnson  Miss 
Seward  &c  &c.  There  are  many  young  Edgeworths 
male  and  female  all  of  promise  and  talent  and  all  living 
round  the  same  table  with  this  set  among  whom  I 
have  not  yet  mentioned  Miss  Edgeworth,  because  I 
consider  you  as  already  knowing  her  from  her  works. 
In  such  a  Society  you  may  suppose  Conversation  must 
be  good,  but  I  was  not  prepared  to  find  it  so  easy.  It 
is  the  only  set  of  the  kind  I  ever  met  with  in  which 
you  are  neither  led  nor  driven,  but  actually  fall,  and 
that  imperceptibly,  into  literary  topics,  and  I 
attribute  it  to  this  that  in  that  house  literature  is 
not  a  treat  for  Company  upon  Invitation  days,  but  is 
actually  the  daily  bread  of  the  family.  Miss  Edge- 
worth  is  for  nothing  more  remarkable  than  for  the 
total  absence  of  vanity.  She  seems  to  have  studied 
her  father's  foibles  for  two  purposes,  to  avoid  them 
and  never  to  appear  to  see  them,  and  what  does  not 
always  happen,  her  want  of  affectation  is  unaffected. 
She  is  as  well  bred  and  as  well  dress 'd  and  as  easy 
and  as  much  like  other  people  as  if  she  was  not  a 
celebrated  author.  No  pretensions,  not  a  bit  of  blue 
stocking  is  to  be  discover'd.  In  the  Conversation  she 
neither  advances  or  keeps  back,  but  mixes  naturally 
and  cheerfully  in  it,  and  tho  in  the  number  of  words 
she  says  less  than  anyone  yet  the  excellence  of  her 
remarks  and  the  unpremeditated  point  which  she 
gives  them  makes  you  recollect  her  to  have  talk'd 
more  than  others.  I  was  struck  by  a  little  felicity 
of  hers  the  night  I  was  there.  Shakespear  was  talk'd 
of  as  he  always  is,  and  I  mentioned  what  you  have 
lately  heard  me  speak  of  as  a  literary  discovery  and 
curiosity,  that  he  has  borrow' d  the  Character  of 
Cardinal  Wolsey  from  Campion,  the  old  Chronicler 
of  Ireland.  This  was  new  to  them  and  Edgeworth 
began  one  of  his  rattles — 


"TZTjE  CHIEF''  49 

"  *  Well  Sir,  and  has  the  minute,  and  the  laborious, 
and  the  indefatigable,  and  the  prying,  and  the  in- 
vestigating Malone  found  this  out  ?  ' 

"  Miss  Edge  worth  said,  almost  under  her  breath, 

"  '  It  was  too  large  for  him  to  see  !  ' 

"  Is  not  that  good  Epigram  ?  I  think  it  is.  Edge- 
worth  gave  her  the  advantage  of  taking  her  into 
France  with  his  Wife  and  others  of  his  family  during 
the  short  peace,  and  they  were  persons  to  improve 
such  an  opportunity.  Miss  Edgeworth's  Madame 
Fleury,  in  the  Fashionable  Tales  is  form'd  on  a  true 
story  which  she  learn'd  there.  You  will  think  this  no 
description  unless  you  know  what  her  figure  is,  and 
face  &c.  &c.  I  think  her  very  good  looking  and  can 
suppose  that  she  was  once  pretty.  Imagine  Miss 
Wilmot  at  about  43  years  old  for  such  I  suppose  Miss 
E.  to  be,  with  all  the  Intelligence  of  her  Countenance 
perhaps  encreas'd  and  the  Sensibility  preserv'd  but 
somewhat  reduc'd,  the  figure  very  smart  and  neat 
as  it  must  be  if  like  Miss  W's  but  some  of  its  beautiful 
redundancies  retir'd  upon  a  peace  Establishment. 

"  Such  is  Miss  Edge  worth  but  take  her  for  all  in  all, 
there  is  nothing  like  her  to  be  seen,  or  rather  to  be 
known,  for  it  is  impossible  to  be  an  hour  in  her 
Company  without  recognizing  her  Talent,  benevolence 
and  worth. 

"  An  interesting  anecdote  occurs  to  me  that  Edge- 
worth  told  us  and  forc'd  her  to  produce  the  proof  of. 

"  Old  Johnson  of  St.  Paul's  Churchyard  London  has 
always  been  her  bookseller  and  purchased  her  Works  at 
first  experimentally  and  latterly  liberally.  He  died 
a  few  months  ago  and  rather  suddenly  and  a  few  hours 
before  his  death  he  sent  for  his  nephew  to  whom  he 
bequeath'd  his  property  and  who  succeeded  him  in  his 
business  and  told  him  that  he  felt  he  had  done  Miss 
E.  injustice  in  only  giving  her  £450  for  Fashionable 


50  IRISH  MEMORIES 

Tales  and  desir'd  him  to  give  her  £450  more.  He  died 
that  day  and  the  next  the  Nephew  sent  her  an  account 
of  the  Transaction  and  the  £450.  This  story  only 
requires  to  be  told  by  Miss  E.  I  read  the  original 
letter. 

"  Adieu  beloved  Nan.  I  have  scribbled  very  much 
but  since  I  left  town  I  have  no  other  opportunity  of 
chatting  to  you. 

"  Ever  your 

C.  K.  B." 


CHAPTER  III 

MAINLY  MARIA   EDGEWORTH 

There  is  a  portrait  of  Mrs.  Bushe  that  is  now  in 
the  possession  of  one  of  her  many  great-grandchildren, 
Sir  Egerton  Coghill.  It  is  a  small  picture,  in  pastel, 
very  delightful  in  technique,  and  the  subject  is  worthy 
of  the  technique.  Nancy  Crampton  was  her  name, 
and  the  picture  was  probably  done  at  the  time  of  her 
marriage,  in  1793,  and  is  a  record  of  the  excellent 
judgment  of  the  future  Lord  Chief  Justice  of  Ireland. 

It  would  be  hard  to  find  a  more  charming  face. 
From  below  a  cloud  of  brown  curls,  deep  and  steady 
blue  eyes  look  straight  into  yours  from  under  level 
brows.  The  extreme  intellectuality  of  the  expression 
does  not  master  its  sweetness.  In  looking  at  the  pic- 
ture the  lines  come  back — 

"  One  in  whose  gentle  bosom  I 

Can  pour  my  inmost  heart  of  woes." 

No  wonder  that  in  the  troublous  days  of  the  Union, 
when  bribes  and  threats  assailed  the  young  barrister 
who  was  already  a  power  in  the  land,  no  wonder 
indeed  that  he  often,  as  he  says  in  one  of  his  letters, 
"  heav'd  a  sigh,  and  thought  of  Nancy,"  and  knew 
"  with  delight  "  that  on  her  heart  he  could  repose  his 
own  when  weary. 

Here,  I  think,  may  fitly  be  given  some  lines  that 

E  2 


52  IRISH  MEMORIES 

the  Chief  wrote,  when  he  was  an  old  man,  to  accom- 
pany the  gift  to  his  wife  of  a  white  fur  tippet. 

To  A  Tippet. 

Soon  as  thy  milk-white  folds  are  prest 
Like  Wreaths  of  Snow  about  her  breast. 
Oh  guard  that  precious  heart  from  harm 
Like  thee  *t  is  pure,  like  thee  't  is  warm. 

Love  and  wit  are  immortal,  we  know,  but  the  spirit 
is  rare  that  can  inspire  them  after  nearly  fifty  years 
of  married  life ;  yet  rarer,  perhaps,  the  young  heart 
that  can  persuade  them  still  to  dwell  with  it  and  to 
overlook  the  silver  head. 

I  grieve  that  I  have  been  unable  to  find  any  of  Mrs. 
Bushe's  earlier  letters.  She  was  a  brilliant  creature 
in  all  ways,  and  had  a  rare  and  enchanting  gift  as  an 
artist,  which,  even  in  those  days,  when  young  ladies 
of  quality  were  immured  inexorably  within  the  padded 
cell  of  the  amateur,  could  scarce  have  failed  to  make 
its  mark,  had  she  not,  as  the  Chief,  with  marital  com- 
placency, observed,  devoted  herself  to  "  making 
originals  instead  of  copies.'* 

In  her  time  there  were  few  women  who  gave  even 
a  moment's  thought  to  the  possibilities  of  individual 
life  as  an  artist,  however  aware  they  might  be — must 
have  been — of  the  gifts  they  possessed.  I  daresay 
that  my  great-grandmother  was  well  satisfied  enough 
with  what  life  had  brought  her — "  honour,  love, 
obedience,  troops  of  friends."  In  one  of  her  letters, 
written  when  she  was  a  very  old  woman,  she  writes 
gaily  of  the  hateful  limitations  of  old  age,  and  says  : 

"  When  people  will  live  beyond  their  time  such 
things  must  be,  and  I  have  a  right  to  be  thankful 
that  old  Time  has  put  on  his  Slippers,  and  does  not 
ride  roughshod  over  me." 

(Which  shows,  I  think,  that  marriage  had  subdued 


MAINLY  MARIA   EDGEWORTH  53 

the  artist  in  her,  and  had,  in  compensation,  evoked 
the  philosopher.) 

It  is  clear,  from  the  last  letter  in  the  preceding 
chapter,  that  Miss  Edgeworth  and  Mrs.  Bushe  had  not 
met  before  1810.  How  soon  afterwards  they  met, 
and  the  friendship,  that  lasted  for  the  rest  of  their 
lives,  began,  I  cannot  ascertain.  In  one  of  Miss  Edge- 
worth's  letters  (quoted  in  one  of  the  many  volumes 
that  have  been  written  about  her)  she  says  : 

"  Having  named  Mrs.  Bushe,  I  must  mention  that 
whenever  I  meet  her  she  is  my  delight  and  admiration, 
from  her  wit,  humour,  and  variety  of  conversation." 

Among  the  contents  of  the  letter-box  that  Martin 
gave  me  are  several  letters  from  Miss  Edgeworth,  and 
they  testify  to  the  fact  that  she  lost  no  time  in  falling 
in  love  with  her  "  very  dear  Mrs.  Bushe." 

I  recognise,  gratefully,  how  highly  I  am  privileged 
in  being  permitted  to  include  in  my  book  these  letters 
from  the  brilliant  pioneer  of  Irish  novelists.  To  the 
readers  and  lovers  of,  for  example,  "  Castle  Rackrent," 
they  may  seem  a  trifle  disappointing  in  their  sub- 
mission to  the  conventions  of  their  period,  a  period 
that  decreed  a  mincing  and  fettered  mode  for  its  lady 
letter- writers,  and  rigorously  exacted  from  its  females 
the  suitable  simper. 

The  writing  is  pale,  prim,  and  pointed,  undeniably 
suggestive  of  prunes,  and  prisms,  and  papa  (that 
inveterate  papa  of  Maria's) ;  yet,  in  spite  of  the  fetters 
of  convention,  the  light  step  is  felt,  and  although 
the  manner  may  mince,  it  cannot  conceal  the  humour, 
the  spirit,  and  the  charm  of  disposition. 

Miss  Edgeworth  was  born  in  the  same  year  as  Chief 
Justice  Bushe,  and  died  six  years  later  than  he,  in 
1849.  Her  friendship  with  Mrs.  Bushe  remained 
unbroken  to  the  last,  and  their  mutual  admiration 
continued  unshaken.     In  such  of  Miss  Edgeworth's 


54  IRISH  MEMORIES 

letters  to  my  great-grandmother  as  I  have  seen,  she 
speaks  but  little  of  literary  work.  One  of  the  later 
letters,  however  (dated  1827),  accompanied  a  present 
of  one  of  her  books  ;  the  date  would  make  it  appear 
that  this  was  one  of  the  sequels  to  "  Early  Lessons  " 
— (in  which  the  unfortunate  Rosamond  is  victimised 
by  the  dastardly  fraud  of  the  Purple  Jar,  and  Harry 
gets  no  breakfast  until  he  has  made  his  bed,  although 
the  fact  that  his  sole  ablutions  consist  in  washing 
his  hands  is  in  no  way  imputed  to  him  as  sin.  But 
this,  also,  is  of  the  period). 

Miss  Maria  Edgeworth  to  Mrs.  Bushe. 
"  Edgeworth's  Town 

"  July  12.  1827. 

"  How  can  I  venture  to  send  such  an  insignificant 
little  child's  book  to  Mrs.  Bushe  ? — Because  I  know 
she  loves  me  and  will  think  the  smallest  offering  from 
me  a  mark  of  kindness — of  confidence  in  her  indul- 
gence and  partiality. 

"  My  sister  Harriet  has  given  me  great  pleasure  by 
writing  me  word  how  kindly  you  speak  of  me,  dear  Mrs. 
Bushe,  and  as  I  know  your  sincerity,  to  speak  and  to 
think  kindly  with  you  are  one  and  the  same.  Believe 
me  I  have  the  honour  to  be  like  you  in  this.  In  every 
thing  that  has  affected  you  since  we  parted  (that  has 
come  to  my  knowledge)  I  have  keenly  sympathised — 
Oh  that  we  could  meet  again.  I  am  sure  our  minds 
would  open  and  join  immediately.  After  all  there  is 
no  greater  mistake  in  life  than  counting  happiness  by 
pounds  shillings  and  pence —  You  and  I  have  never 
done  this  I  believe —  We  ought  to  meet  again. 
Cannot  you  contrive  it  ? 

"  I  am  glad  at  least  that  my  sister  Harriet  has  the 
pleasure  which  I  have  not.  Your  penetration  will 
soon  discover  all  my  father's  heart  and  all  his  talents 


MAINLY   MARIA   EDGEWORTH  55 

in  her.     Remember  me  most  respectfully  and  most 
affectionately  to  the  Chief  Justice  and  believe  me 
"  Most  truly  your 

"  Affectionate  friend 

"  Maria  Edgeworth. 

"  Harriet  did  not  know  this  little  vol  was  published 
or  that  I  intended  publishing  it  when  you  spoke  to 
her. 

"  I  had  amused  myself  with  the  assistance  of  a 
confederate  sister  at  home  in  getting  them  printed 
without  her  knowing  it  for  the  Wise  pleasure  of  sur- 
prising her  as  she  had  always  said  I  could  not  print 
anything  without  her  knowledge —  These  little  wee 
wee  plays  were  written  ages  ago  in  my  age  of  happiness 
for  birthday  diversions  and  Harriet  added  the  cross 
Prissy  16  years  ago  !  " 

Miss  Maria  Edgeworth  to  Mrs.  Bushe 
Kilmurrey,  Thomastown,  Co.  Kilkenny. 

"  Edgeworth' s  Town 

"  June  18th  1815. 

"  My  very  dear  Mrs.  Bushe, 

"  This  letter  is  dictated  by  my  father  as  you  might 
guess  by  the  bold  appellation  with  which  I  have  begun. 
He  projects  a  migration  southward  this  ensuing  month 
— ^towards  Cork  where  Mrs.  Edgeworth's  brother  is 
fatly  and  fitly  provided  for  in  the  Church.  In  his 
route  my  father  glances  sideways  to  the  real  pleasure 
of  having  an  opportunity  of  seeing  you  free  from  all 
the  shackles  of  high  station  and  high  fashion,  in  the 
retirement  which  your  wise  husband  prefers  to  both. 
Tell  us  when  he  will  be  at  home  and  when  at  home 
whether  it  will  be  convenient  (we  are  vain  to  think  it 
would  be  agreeable  you  perceive)  to  receive  us  for  a 
day  and  a  night.     There  will  be  three  of  us,  papa, 


56  IRISH  MEMORIES 

mama  and  self.  Though  we  were  Foxites  we  cannot 
sleep  '  three  in  a  hed.^  As  the  circuit  will  probably 
engage  the  Sol.  gen  ^  for  some  time  to  come  our  pros- 
pect looks  to  the  period  when  he  may  return. 

"  So  far  from  my  father — now  of  him.     This  day  he 
is  much  better  and  we  are  all  in  high  spirits.     And 
he  will  not  let  me  add  one  word  more. 
"  Dear  Mrs.  Bushe, 

"  Affectionately  yours 

"  Maria  Edge  worth." 


"  From  Miss  Maria  Edgeworth 

TO   Mrs.    Bushe,    Kilmurrey,   Thomastown, 
Co.  Kilkenny 

"  Edgeworth's  Town 

Augt.  2Qth  1832. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Bushe 

"  Did  you  ever  form  any  idea  of  the  extent  of  my 
assurance — 

"  If  you  did  I  have  a  notion  I  shall  now  exceed 
whatever  might  have  been  your  estimate. 

"  I  am  about  to  ask  you — ^to  ask  you  plunging — 
without  preface  or  apology  to  go  to  work  for  me — 
and  to  give  me  only  because  I  have  the  assurance  to 
ask  for  it  what  every  body  would  wish  to  have  from 
you  and  nobody  who  had  any  pretence  to  modesty 
(out  of  your  own  family  and  privileged  circle  of  dears) 
would  venture  to  think  of  asking  for. 

"  A  bag  if  you  please  of  your  own  braid  work  my 
dear  Mrs.  Bushe — Louisa  Beaufort  who  has  just  come 
to  visit  us  tells  me  that  your  braid  work  is  so  beautiful 
that  I  do  covet  this  souvenir  from  you.  The  least 
Forget  me  not — or  Heartsease  will  fulfil  all  my  wishes — 
if  indeed  you  are  so  very  kind  as  to  listen  to  me.     I 

*  Solicitor-Grcneral. 


MAINLY  MARIA   EDGEWORTH  57 

have  your  Madonna  over  the  chimney  piece  in  our 
Hbrary  and  often  do  I  look  at  her  with  affection  and 
gratitude.  I  wish  dear  Mrs.  Bushe  we  could  ever  meet 
again,  but  this  world  goes  so  badly  that  I  fear  our 
throats  will  be  cut  by  order  of  O'Connell  &  Co  very 
soon,  or  we  shall  be  beggars  walking  the  world,  and 
walking  the  world  different  ways.  It  is  good  to  laugh 
as  long  as  we  can,  however  and  whenever  we  can — 
between  crying  times — of  which  there  are  so  many  too 
many  now  a  days. 

"  I  hear  sad  tidings  of  my  much  loved,  more  loved 
even  than  admired,  friend  Sir  Walter  Scott.  His 
body  lives  and  is  likely  to  live  some  time — his  mind 
oh  such  a  mind  !  is  gone  forever.  His  temper  too 
which  was  most  charming  and  most  amiable  is  changed 
by  disease.  Mrs.  Lockhart  that  daughter  who  so 
admires  him  is  more  to  be  pitied  than  words  can 
express.  His  mind  was  a  little  revived  by  the  first 
return  to  Abbotsford — but  sunk  again —  Of  all 
afflictions  surely  this  is  the  worst  that  friends  can 
have  to  endure — death  a  comparative  blessing. 

"  I  find  the  love  of  garden  grow  upon  me  as  I  grow 
older  more  and  more.  Shrubs  and  flowers  and  such 
small  gay  things,  that  bloom  and  please  and  fade 
and  wither  and  are  gone  and  we  care  not  for  them,  are 
refreshing  interests,  in  life,  and  if  we  cannot  say  never 
fading  pleasures,  we  may  say  unreproved  pleasures  and 
never  grieving  losses. 

"  I  remember  your  history  of  the  bed  of  tulips  or 
anemones  which  the  Chief  Justice  fancied  he  should 
fancy  and  which  you  reared  for  him  and  he  walked 
over  without  knowing. 

"  Does  your  taste  for  flowers  continue.  We  have 
some  fine  carnations — if  you  could  fancy  them.  Some 
way  or  other  they  should  get  to  you.  If  not  by  a 
flying  carpet  by  as  good  a  mode  of  conveyance  or 


58  IRISH  MEMORIES 

better — ^the  frank  of  Sir  W.  Gapes  or  Right  Hon. 
C.  G.  S.  Stanley. 

"  To  either  of  which  direct  for  me  anything  of  what- 
ever size  or  weight  (barring  the  size  of  the  house  or  so) 
and  it  will  be  conveyed  to  me  swift  and  sure  as  if  the 
African  Magician  himself  carried  the  same. 

"  I  more  much  more  wish  to  hear  from  you  my  dear 
Mrs.  Bushe,  and  to  know  from  your  own  self  how  you 
are  going  on  than  to  have  all  the  braided  bags  however 
pretty  that  could  be  given  to  me.  That  is  the  truth 
of  the  matter.  So  pray  write  to  me  and  tell  me  all 
that  concerns  you — ^for 

"  I  am  very  sincerely  and  affectionately 
"  Your  little  old  friend 

"  Maria  Edge  worth. 

"  Will  you  present  my  affectionate  respects  to  the 
Chief  Justice.  I  wish  his  country  were  more  worthy 
of  him — or  rather  I  wish  his  country  were  allowed  to  be 
and  to  show  itself  more  worthy  of  such  a  Chief  Justice 
and  such  a  private  character  as  his. 

"  I  am  convinced  that  if  the  Scotch  maxim  of  Let 
well  alone  were  pursued  in  Ireland  we  should  do  well 
enough.  But  to  the  rage  of  obtaining  popularity 
in  a  single  individual  must  the  peace  of  a  country  be 
sacrificed.^ 

"  What  can  the  heart  of  such  a  man  be  made  of  ? 
And  however  great  his  talents  how  infinitely  little  and 
nauseously  mean  must  his  Mind  be  I 

^ "  He  is  too  clever  and  clear  sighted  not  to  know 
too  well  what  he  is  about  and  what  his  own  motions 
are.  It  is  my  belief  however  that  he  could  not  now  be 
quiet  if  he  would  he  has  such  a  Mob-omania  upon 
him. 

"  We  are  quiet  enough  here — as  yet." 
1  Daniel  O'Connell. 


MAINLY   MARIA   EDGEWORTH  59 

"  The  Lord  Chief  Justice  of  Ireland 

"  17  Upper  Mount  Street,  Dublin. 
From  Miss  Maria  Edgeworth. 

A  proverb  goes — (I  love  it  well) 
Of  "  Give  an  inch  and  take  an  ell  " 
'Tis  lady's  law — and,  to  be  brief 
Now  must  be  mine,  my  dear  Lord  Chief 

"  The  case  is  this — 

"  May  I  beg  your  Lordship  not  to  shake  your  head 
irrevocably  before  you  have  heard  me  out — 

"  Suppose I  only  modestly   say  suppose 

.  .  .  which  leaves  the  matter  just  as  it  was,  in  case 
your  Lordship  is  determined  to  oppose  — suppose  now, 
in  short,  you  could  contrive  to  come  down  to  us  a  day 
— a  day  or  two — (pray  dont  start  off  !)  or  if  you  could 
possibly  bear  3 — days  before  the  assizes  ?  You  could 
get — say  here — without  hurry  to  dinner  at  7 — or — name 
your  hour — and  you  should  have  coffee  comfortably 
without  being  obliged  to  enter  an  appearance  in  the 
drawing  room,  and  should  retire  to  rest  at  whatever 
hour  you  like — and  I  do  humbly  concieve  that  your 
bed  and  all  concerns,  might  be  as  comfortably  arranged 
here  as  at  MuUingar  Hotel — (though  I  wd  not  disparage 
sd  Hotel) —  But  double  bedded  or  single  room  and 
room  for  friend  and  servant  adjoining — and  a  whole 
apartment  with  backstairs  of  its  own  shut  out  from 
the  rest  of  the  house  is  at  your  Lordship's  disposal— 
And  as  to  invalid  habits  unless  you  have  the  habit 
of  walking  in  your  sleep  all  over  the  house  I  don't  see 
how  they  could  incommode  or  be  incommoded. 

"  If  you  mean  that  you  like  to  lie  in  bed  in  the 
morning  late —    Lie  as  late  as  ever  you  please. 

"  No  questions  asked.  No  breakfast  waiting  for 
you  below,  or  thought  of  your  appearance  till  you 
please   to   shine   upon   us.     Breakfast   waiting   your 


60  IRISH  MEMORIES 

bell's  touch,  in  your  bed,  or  out  of  it  at  any  hour  you 
please —  And  no  worry  of  Company  at  dinner  (unless 
you  bespeak  the  world  and  his  wife —  But  if  you  did 
we  should  not  know  where  to  find  them  for  you). 

"  We  have  only  our  own  e very-day  family  party  and 
should  only  wish  and  hope  to  add  to  it,  to  meet  you, 
a  sister,  who  in  happy  days  knew  and  admired  you, 
even  from  her  childhood  (Mrs.  Butler  nee  Harriet 
Edgeworth)  and  her  husband,  whom  you  knew  in 
happy  days  too,  at  the  late  Bishop  of  Meath's.  Thank 
you  my  dear  Lord  for  promising  to  look  for  the  Bishop's 
verses 

"  Now  pray  let  me  thank  you  in  my  heart  for  your 
answer  to  this  letter. 

"  Mrs  Bushe  if  she  likes  me  as  well  as  I  most  humbly 
believe  she  does,  will  put  in  a  good  word  for  us — and  her 
good  words  can  never  be  said  in  vain — and  must  be 
followed  by  good  deeds. 

"  I  am  my  dear  Lord 
with  more  respect  than  appears  here 
And  all  the  sincerely  affectionate 
regard  that  has  been  felt  for  you  (we  need  not 
say  how  many  years) — 

"  Your — to  be  obliged — humble  servant 

"  Maria  Edgeworth 
"  Edgeworth  Town 
"  Feh.  \st  1837  " 


CHAPTER  IV 

OLD   FORGOTTEN   THINGS 

Chief  Justice  Bushe  died  in  1843,  and  Maria 
Edge  worth  in  1849,  but  Mrs.  Bushe  lived  on  till  1857, 
a  delight  and  an  inspiration  to  her  children  and  grand- 
children. To  her,  even  more  than  to  the  Chief,  may- 
be ascribed  the  inevitable,  almost  invariable  turn  for 
the  Arts,  in  some  form,  frequently  in  all  forms,  that 
distinguishes  their  descendants,  and  to  her  also  is 
attributed  a  quality  in  story-telling  known  as  "  Cramp- 
ton  dash,"  which  may  be  explained  as  an  intensifying 
process,  analogous  to  the  swell  in  an  organ. 

But  few  of  their  grandchildren,  that  potent  and  far- 
reaching  first  cousinhood  of  seventy,  now  remain. 
Bushes,  Plunkets,  Coghills,  Foxes,  Franks,  Harrises, 
they  were  a  notable  company,  and  I  imagine  that  in 
the  middle  and  later  years  of  the  last  century  they 
made  a  clan  of  no  small  power  and  influence. 
"  Dublin  is  my  washpot,  over  Merrion  Square  will  I 
cast  out  my  shoe,''  they  might  have  said,  possibly 
did  say,  in  their  arrogant  youth,  when  "  The  Family," 
good-looking,  amusing,  and  strenuous,  "  took  the 
flure  "  in  the  Dublin  society  of  the  'fifties.  From 
among  them  came  no  luminary  in  Art,  specially  out- 
standing, yet  there  was  scarcely  one  of  them  without 
some  touch  of  that  spark  which  is  lit  by  a  coal  taken 
from    the   altar,    and  is,    for   want  of  a  better  term, 


62  IRISH  MEMORIES 

called  originality ;  and  although  the  reputations  of 
neither  Shakespeare  nor  Michael  Angelo  were  threat- 
ened, they  could  have  provided  a  club  dedicated 
to  "  Les  Quatz'  Arts  "  with  a  very  useful  selection 
of  members. 

(Yet  the  mention  of  Shakespeare,  and  the  wish  to 
be  sincere,  force  me  to  recall  a  tale  of  two  of  these 
first  cousins  of  Martin's  mother  and  mine,  the  one 
an  artist  of  delightful  achievement,  the  other,  amongst 
her  many  gifts,  an  astronomer  and  writer.  The 
latter  reproached  the  former  for  her  neglect  of 
Shakespeare,  and  announced  her  intention  of  reading 
aloud  to  her  one  of  his  plays.  The  artist  replied  with 
a  high  and  characteristic  tranquillity,  "  Shakespeare 
was  a  coarse  man,  my  dear,  but  you  may  read  him  to 
me  if  you  like.     I  can  go  into  a  reverie.") 

It  is  not  out  of  place  to  mention  here  that  the  first 
writing  in  which  Martin  and  I  collaborated  was  a 
solemnly  preposterous  work,  a  dictionary  of  the  words 
and  phrases  peculiar  to  our  family,  past  and  present, 
with  derivations  and  definitions— the  definitions  being 
our  opportunity.  It  might  possibly— in  fact  I  think 
some  selections  would — entertain  the  public,  but  I 
can  confidently  say  it  will  never  be  offered  to  it ; 
Bowdler  himself  would  quail  at  the  difficulties  it 
would  present. 

*  ♦  *  «  * 

Martin  has,  in  her  memoir  of  her  brother  Robert, 
given  a  sketch  of  life  at  Ross  as  it  was  in  the  old 
days,  in  its  patriarchal  simplicity,  its  pastoral  abun- 
dance, its  limitless  hospitality,  its  feudal  relations  with 
the  peasants.  Its  simplicity  was,  I  imagine,  of  a  more 
primitive  type  than  can  be  claimed  for  any  conditions 
that  I  can  personally  remember  in  my  own  country. 
The  time  of  which  she  has  written  was  already  passing 
when  she  arrived  on  the  scene,  and  she  had  to  rely 


OLD  FORGOTTEN  THINGS  63 

mainly  on  the  records  of  her  elders.  The  general 
atmosphere  there  and  in  my  country  was  much  the 
same,  but  a  certain  degree  of  sophistication  may  have 
set  in  a  little  earlier  here,  and  when  I  say  "  here,'* 
I  speak  of  that  fair  and  far-away  district,  the  Barony 
of  West  Carbery,  County  Cork,  the  ultimate  corner  of 
the  ultimate  speck  of  Europe— Ireland.  You  will 
not  find  West  Carbery 's  name  in  the  atlas,  but  Cape 
Clear  will  not  be  denied,  and  there  is  nothing  of  West 
Carbery  west  of  Cape  Clear,  unless  one  counts  its 
many  sons  and  daughters  who  have  gone  even  farther 
west,  to  the  Land  of  the  Setting  Sun. 

The  Ireland  that  Martin  and  I  knew  when  we  were 
children  is  fast  leaving  us  ;  every  day  some  landmark 
is  wiped  out ;  I  will  try,  as  she  has  done,  to  recapture 
some  of  the  flying  memories. 

To  begin  with 

Castle  Townshend. 

Castle  Townshend  is  a  small  village  in  the  south- 
west of  the  County  of  Cork,  unique  in  many  ways 
among  Irish  villages,  incomparable  in  the  beauty  of 
its  surroundings,  remarkable  in  its  high  level  of 
civilisation,  and  in  the  number  of  its  "  quality  houses." 
"  High  ginthry  does  be  jumpin'  mad  for  rooms  in 
this  village,"  was  how  the  matter  was  defined  by  a 
skilled  authority,  while  another,  equally  versed  in 
social  matters,  listened  coldly  to  commendation  of  a 
rival  village,  and  remarked,  "  It's  a  nice  place  enough, 
but  the  ginthry  is  very  light  in  it.  It's  very  light 
with  them  there  entirely." 

I  hasten  to  add  that  this  criticism  did  not  refer  to 
the  morals  of  the  gentry,  merely  to  their  scarcity — 
as  one  says  "  a  light  crop." 

Castlehaven  Harbour,  to  whose  steep  shores  it 
adheres,  defiant  of  the  law  of  gravity,  by  whose  rules 


64  IRISH  MEMORIES 

it  should  long  since  have  slipped  into  the  sea,  has  its 
place  in  history.  The  Spanish  Armada  touched 
en  passant  (touched  rather  hard  in  some  places),  one  of 
Queen  Elizabeth's  admirals,  Admiral  Leveson,  touched 
too,  fairly  hard,  and  left  cannon-ball  bruises  on  the 
walls  of  Castlehaven  Castle.  The  next  distinguished 
visitors  were  a  force  of  Cromwell's  troopers.  Brian's 
Fort,  built  by  Brian  Townshend,  the  son  of  one  of 
Cromwell's  officers,  still  stands  firm,  and  Swift's  tower, 
near  it,  is  distinguished  as  the  place  where  "  the 
gloomy  Dean  "  (of  autre  fois)  wrote  a  Latin  poem, 
called  "  Carberiae  Rupes."  A  translation  of  this  com- 
pliment to  the  Rocks  of  Carbery  was  printed  one 
hundred  and  seventy  years  ago  in  Smith's  "  History  of 
the  Co.  Cork."  It  was  much  admired  by  the  historian. 
A  quotation  from  it  may  be  found  in  "  A  Record  of 
Holiday,"  in  one  of  our  books,  "  Some  Irish  Yester- 
days," but  candour  compels  me  to  admit  that  four 
of  its  lines,  descriptive  of  the  coast  of  Carbery — 

"  Oft  too,  with  hideous  yawn,  the  cavern  wide 
Presents  an  orifice  on  either  side  ; 
A  dismal  orifice,  from  sea  to  sea 
Extended,  pervious  to  the  god  of  day." 

— might  be  taken  as  equally  descriptive  of  its 
readers. 

The  Titanic  passed  within  a  few  miles  of  Castle- 
haven on  her  first  and  last  voyage  ;  I  saw  her  racing 
to  the  West,  into  the  glow  of  a  fierce  winter  sunset. 
It  was  from  Castle  Townshend  that  the  first  warnings 
of  the  sharks  that  were  waiting  for  the  Lusitania 
were  sent ;  and  into  Castlehaven  Harbour  came, 
by  many  succeeding  tides,  victims  of  that  tragedy. 
Let  it  be  remembered  to  the  honour  of  the  fishermen 
who  harvested  those  sheaves  of  German  reaping,  that 
the  money  and  the  jewels,  which  most  of  the  drowned 


CASTLEHAVEN   HARBOUR. 


CARBERIAE   RUPES. 


OLD  FORGOTTEN  THINGS  65 

people  had  brought  with  them,  were  left  with  them, 
untouched. 

It  must  have  been  eighty  or  ninety  years  ago  that 
the  first  member  of  "  The  Chief's  "  family  reached 
Castlehaven.  This  was  his  second  son,  the  Rev. 
Charles  Bushe,  who  was,  as  Miss  Edgeworth  says  of 
her  stepmamma's  brother,  "  fatly  and  fitly  provided 
for  "  with  the  living  of  Castlehaven.  Somervilles  and 
Townshends  had  been  living  and  intermarrying  in 
Castlehaven  Parish,  with  none  to  molest  their  ancient 
^solitary  reign,  since  Brian  Townshend  built  himself  the 
fort  from  which  he  could  look  forth  upon  one  of  the 
loveliest  harbours  in  Ireland,  and  the  Reverend 
Thomas  Somerville,  the  first  of  his  family  to  settle  in 
Munster,  took  to  himself  (by  purchase  from  the  repre- 
sentatives of  the  Earl  of  Castlehaven)  the  old 
O'Driscoll  Castle,  and  lies  buried  beside  it,  in  St. 
Barrahane's  churchyard,  under  a  slab  that  proclaims 
him  to  have  been  "  A  Worthy  Magistrate,  and  a  Safe 
and  Affable  Companion."  The  two  clans  enjoyed 
in  those  days,  I  imagine,  a  splendid  isolation,  akin  to 
that  of  the  Samurai  in  Old  Japan,  and  the  Rev. 
Charles  Bushe,  an  apostle  of  an  alien  cultivation, 
probably  realised  the  feelings  of  Will  Adams  when  he 
was  cast  ashore  at  Osaka,  may,  indeed,  have  felt  his 
position  to  be  as  precarious  as  that  of  the  first  mission- 
ary at  the  Court  of  the  King  of  the  Cannibal  Islands. 

My  great-uncle  Charles  was  for  forty  years  the 
Rector  of  Castlehaven  Parish,  and  the  result  of  his 
ministry  that  most  directly  affects  me  was  the  marriage 
of  my  father.  Colonel  Thomas  Henry  Somerville,  of 
Brisbane,  to  the  Rev.  Charles's  niece,  Adelaide 
Coghill.  (That  she  was  also  his  step-sister-in-law  is 
a  fact  too  bewildering  to  anyone  save  a  professional 
genealogist  for  me  to  dwell  on  it  here.  I  will  merely 
say  that  my  mother's  father  was  Admiral  Sir  Josiah 

F 


66  IRISH   MEMORIES 

Coghill,    and   her   mother   was    Anna   Maria   Bushe, 
daughter  of  the  Chief  Justice.)  ^ 

There  is  a  picture  extant,  the  work  of  that  artist 
to  whom  I  have  already  referred,  in  which  is  depicted 
the  supposed  indignation  of  the  Aboriginal  Red 
men,  i.e.,  my  grandfather  Somerville  and  his  house- 
hold, at  the  apostasy  of  my  father,  a  Prince  of  the 
(Red)  Blood  Royal,  in  departing  from  the  family 
habit  of  marrying  a  Townshend,  and  in  allying  himself 
with  a  Paleface.  In  that  picture  the  Red  men  and 
women  are  armed  with  clubs,  the  Palefaces  with 
croquet  mallets.  It  was  with  these  that  they  entered 
in  and  possessed  the  land.  My  grandmother  (nee 
Townshend,  of  Castle  Townshend),  a  small  and 
eminently  dignified  lady,  one  of  my  great-aunts, 
and  other  female  relatives,  are  profanely  represented, 
capering  with  fury,  clad  in  brief  garments  of  rabbit 
skin.  The  Paleface  females  surge  in  vast  crinolines  ; 
the  young  Red  man  is  encircled  by  them,  as  was  the 
swineherd  in  Andersen's  fairy  tale,  by  the  Court 
ladies.  My  grandfather  swings  a  tomahawk,  and  is 
faced  by  my  uncle.  Sir  Joscelyn  Coghill,  leader  of 
the  second  wave  of  invasion,  with  a  photographic 
camera  (the  first  ever  seen  in  West  Carbery)  and  a 
tripod. 

«  9|e  *  *  ^f 

I  think  I  must  diverge  somewhat  farther  from  my 

1  Among  the  letters  in  the  old  letter-box  of  which  I  have  spoken 
was  a  paper,  the  contents  of  which  may  be  offered  to  the  pro- 
fessional genealogist.     They  are  as  follows  : 

"  By  the  marriage  of  Charles  Bushe  to  Emmeline  Coghill,  (daughter 
of  Sir  J,  Coghill  Bt.  by  his  first  wife,)  the  lady  becomes  neice  {sic) 
to  her  husband,  sister  to  her  mother,  and  daughter  to  her  grand- 
mother, aunt  to  her  sisters  and  cousins,  and  grandaunt  to  her  own 
children,  stepmother  to  her  cousins,  and  sister-in-law  to  her  father, 
while  her  mother  will  be  at  the  same  time  aunt  and  grandmother 
to  her  nephews  and  neices."  I  recommend  no  one  to  try  to  under- 
stand these  statements. — E.  OE.  S. 


OLD  FORGOTTEN   THINGS  67 

main  thesis  in  order  to  talk  a  little  about  the  Ancient 
Order  of  Hibernians  (if  I  may  borrow  the  appella- 
tion) who  were  thus  dispossessed.  For,  as  is  the  way- 
all  the  world  over,  the  missionaries  ate  up  the 
cannibals,  and  the  Red  men  have  left  only  their 
names  and  an  unworthy  granddaughter  to  com- 
memorate their  customs. 

Few  South  Pacific  Islands  are  now  as  isolated  as 
was,  in  those  days, — I  speak  of  ninety  or  one  hundred 
years  ago — Castle  Townshend.  The  roads  were 
little  better  than  bridle-paths  ;  they  straggled  and 
struggled,  as  far  as  was  possible,  along  the  crests  of 
the  hills,  and  this  was  as  a  protection  to  the  traveller, 
who  could  less  easily  be  ambushed  and  waylaid  by 
members  of  the  large  assortment  of  secret  societies, 
Whiteboys,  Ribbonmen,  Molly  Maguires,  Outlaws  in 
variety,  whose  spare  moments  between  rebellions 
were  lightened  by  highway  robbery.  I  have  heard 
that  my  great-grandmother's  "  coach  "  was  the  only 
wheeled  vehicle  that  came  into  Castle  Townshend. 
My  great-grandfather  used  to' ride  to  Cork,  fifty-two 
miles,  and  the  tradition  is  that  he  had  a  fabulous 
black  mare,  named  Bess,  who  trotted  the  journey  in 
three  hours  (which  I  take  leave  to  doubt).  All  the 
heavy  traffic  came  and  went  by  sea.  The  pews  of 
the  church  came  from  Cork  by  ship.  They  have 
passed  now,  but  I  can  remember  them,  and  I  should 
have  thought  that  their  large  simplicity  would  not 
have  been  beyond  the  scope  of  the  local  carpenter. 
There  was  a  triple  erection  for  the  pulpit ;  the  clerk 
sat  in  the  basement,  the  service  was  read  au  premier, 
and  to  the  top  story  my  great-uncle  Charles  was  wont 
to  mount,  in  a  black  gown  and  "  bands,"  and  thence 
deliver  classic  discourses,  worthy,  as  I  have  heard, 
of  the  son  of  "  silver-tongued  Bushe,"  but  memorable 
to  me  (at  the  age  of,  say,  six)  for  the  conviction, 

F  2 


68  IBISH  MEMORIES 

imparted  by  them  anew  each  Sunday,  that  they  were 
samples  of  eternity,  and  would  never  end.  My 
eldest  brother,  who  shared  the  large  square  pew  with 
our  grandfather  and  me,  was  much  sustained  by  a 
feud  with  a  coastguard  child,  with  whom  he  competed 
in  the  emulous  construction  of  grimaces,  mainly 
based,  like  the  sermons,  on  an  excessive  length  of 
tongue,  but  I  had  no  such  solace.  Feuds  are,  un- 
doubtedly, a  great  solace  to  ennuis  and  in  the  elder 
times  of  a  hundred  years  or  so  ago  they  seem  to  have 
been  the  mainstay  of  society  in  West  Cork.  Splendid 
feuds,  thoroughly  made,  solid,  and  without  a  crack 
into  which  any  importunate  dove  could  insert  so 
much  as  an  olive-leaf. 

Ireland  was,  in  those  days,  a  forcing  bed  for  indi- 
viduality. Men  and  women,  of  the  upper  classes, 
were  what  is  usually  described  as  "  a  law  unto  them- 
selves," which  is  another  way  of  saying  that  they 
broke  those  of  all  other  authorities.  That  the  larger 
landowners  were,  as  a  class,  honourable,  reasonably 
fair-minded,  and  generous,  as  is  not,  on  the  whole, 
disputed,  is  a  credit  to  their  native  kindliness  and 
good  breeding.  They  had  neither  public  opinion 
nor  legal  restraint  to  interfere  with  them.  Each 
estate  was  a  kingdom,  and,  in  the  impossibility  of 
locomotion,  each  neighbouring  potentate  acquired  a 
relative  importance  quite  out  of  proportion  to  his 
merits,  for  to  love  your  neighbour — or,  at  all  events, 
to  marry  her — was  almost  inevitable  when  matches 
were  a  matter  of  mileage,  and  marriages  might  be 
said  to  have  been  made  by  the  map.  Enormous 
families  were  the  rule  in  all  classes,  such  being  reputed 
to  be  the  will  of  God,  and  the  olive  branches  about 
the  paternal  table  often  became  of  so  dense  a  growth 
as  to  exclude  from  it  all  other  fruits  of  the  earth, 
save,  possibly,  the  potato. 


OLD  FORGOTTEN   THINGS  69 

Equally  vigorous,  as  I  have  said,  was  the  growth  of 
character.  There  was  room  in  those  spacious  days  for 
expansion,  and  the  advantage  was  not  wasted.  There 
was  an  old  lady  who  lived  in  West  Carbery,  and 
died  some  fifty  years  ago,  about  whom  legend  has 
accumulated.  She  lived  in  a  gaunt  grey  house,  that 
still  exists,  and  is  as  suggestive  of  a  cave  as  anything 
as  high  and  narrow,  and  implacably  symmetrical, 
can  be.  Tall  elms  enshroud  it,  and  rooks  at  evening 
make  a  black  cloud  about  it.  It  has  now  been  civil- 
ised, but  I  can  remember  the  awe  it  inspired  in  me  as 
a  child.  She  was  of  distinguished  and  ancient  family 
(though  she  was  born  in  such  remote  ages  that  one 
would  say  there  could  have  been  scarcely  more  than 
two  generations  between  her  and  Adam  and  Eve). 
She  was  very  rich,  and  she  was  a  miser  of  the  school 
of  comic  opera,  showy  and  dramatic.  Her  only  son, 
known,  not  without  reason,  as  "  Johnny  Wild,"  is 
said,  after  many  failures,  to  have  finally  extracted 
money  from  her  by  the  ingenious  expedient  of  in- 
veigling her  into  a  shed  in  which  was  a  wicked  bull, 
and  basing  a  claim  for  an  advance  on  the  probability 
that  the  bull  would  do  the  same.  She  lost  ten  shillings 
on  a  rent  day,  and  raised  it  among  her  tenants  by 
means  of  a  round-robin.  Her  costume  was  that  of  a 
scarecrow  that  has  lost  all  self-respect,  yet — a  solitary 
extravagance — when  she  went  in  a  train  she  travelled 
first-class.  It  is  said  that  on  a  journey  to  Dublin 
she  was  denounced  to  the  guard  as  a  beggar-woman 
who  had  mistaken  the  carriage.  It  happened  that 
the  denouncer  was  a  lady  with  a  courtesy-title 
derived  from  a  peerage  of  recent  and  dubious  origin. 
The  beggar-woman  threatened  to  recite  their  respective 
pedigrees  on  the  platform,  and  the  protest  was  with- 
drawn. Naturally  she  fought  with  most  of  her  neigh- 
bours, specially  her  kinsfolk,  and,  as  a  result  of  a 


70  IRISH  MEMORIES 

specially  sanguinary  engagement,  announced  that  she 
would  never  again  "  set  foot  "  in  the  village  sacred  to 
her  clan  (and  it  may  be  noted  that  the  term  "  to 
set  foot  "  invariably  implies  something  sacrificial,  a 
rite,  but  one  always  more  honoured  in  the  breach  than 
in  the  observance)  "  until  the  day  when  she  went  into 
it  with  four  horses  and  her  two  feet  foremost,"  which 
referred  to  her  final  transit  to  the  family  burying- 
ground.  On  her  death-bed,  a  cousin,  not  unnaturally 
anxious  as  to  her  future  welfare,  offered  to  read  to 
her  suitable  portions  of  the  Bible,  but  the  offer  was 
declined. 

"  Faith,  my  dear,  I'll  not  trouble  ye.  I  know  it  all 
by  heart ;  but  I'm  obliged  to  ye,  and  I  wish  I  had  a 
pound  that  I  might  give  it  ye,  but  I  haven't  so  much 
as  a  ha'penny." 

She  shortly  afterwards  died,  and  there  was  found 
in  her  bedroom,  in  a  desk,  £500,  and  a  further  £20 
was  discovered  rolled  up  in  an  old  bonnet,  a  black 
straw  bonnet  with  bright  green  ribbons. 


CHAPTER  V 

EARLY   WEST    CARBERY 

I  HAVE  already  commented  on  the  social  importance, 
and  value,  of  the  feuds  of  a  century  ago.  Fights  were 
made,  like  the  wall-papers,  the  carpets,  the  furniture, 
to  last.  Friendships  too,  I  daresay,  but  though  it 
was  possible  to  dissolve  a  friendship,  the  full-fledged 
fight,  beaked  and  clawed,  was  incapable  as  an  eagle 
of  laying  down  its  weapons. 

Such  a  fight  there  was  between  two  sisters,  both  long 
since  dead.  They  were  said  to  have  been  among  "  The 
Beauties  of  the  Court  of  the  Regent " — delightful 
phrase,  bringing  visions  of  ringlets  and  rouge,  and  low 
necks  and  high  play — and  both  were  famed  for  their 
wit,  their  charm,  and  their  affection  for  each  other. 
Still  unmarried,  their  mother  brought  them  home  to 
Castle  Townshend  (for  reasons  not  unconnected  with 
the  run  of  the  cards),  not  quite  so  young  as  they  had 
been — in  those  days  a  young  lady's  first  youth  seems 
to  have  been  irrevocably  lost  at  about  three  and 
twenty— yet  none  the  less  dangerous  on  that  account. 
Most  feuds  originate  in  a  difference  of  opinion,  but  this 
one,  or  so  it  has  always  been  said,  was  due  to  a  disas- 
trous similarity  in  taste.  Legends  hint  that  a  young 
cousin,  my  grandfather,  then  a  personable  youth 
fresh  from  Oxford,  was  the  difficulty.  But  whatever 
the  cause  (and  he  married  the  elder  sister)  peace  was 


72  IRISH  MEMORIES 

not  found  in  sixty  years  ;  the  combatants  died,  and 
the  fight  outlived  the  fighters. 

In  these  feebler  days  the  mental  attitude  of  that  time 
is  hard  to  realise.  The  stories  that  have  come  down 
to  us  only  complicate  the  effort  to  reconstitute  the 
people  and  the  period,  but  they  may  help— some  of 
them— to  explain  the  French  Revolution.  A  tale  is 
told  of  one  of  these  ex-beauties,  noted,  be  it  remem- 
bered, for  her  charm  of  manner,  her  culture,  her  sense 
of  humour.  Near  the  end  of  her  long  life  she  went  to 
the  funeral  of  a  relative,  leaning  decorously  upon  the 
arm  of  a  kinsman.  At  the  churchyard  a  countryman 
pushed  forward  between  her  and  the  coffin.  She 
thereupon  disengaged  her  arm  from  that  of  her  squire, 
and  struck  the  countryman  in  the  face.  It  is  no  less 
characteristic  of  the  time  that  the  countryman's 
attitude  does  not  come  into  the  story,  but  it  seems  to 
me  probable  that  he  went  home  and  boasted  then,  and 

for  the  rest  of  his  life,  that  old  Madam had  "  bet 

him  a  blow  in  the  face." 

There  is  yet  another  story,  written  in  a  letter  to  a 
young  cousin,  by  my  father's  cousin,  the  late  Mrs. 
Pierrepont  Mundy,  a  very  delightful  letter-writer 
and  story-teller,  who  has  taken  with  her  to  the  next 
world  a  collection  of  anecdotes  that  may  possibly  cause 
her  relatives  there  to  share  the  regret  of  her  friends 
here  that  she  did  not  leave  them  behind  her. 

"  One  more  link  in  the  chain  of  events,"  she 
writes, 

"  Grandma's  sister-in-law  married  her  brother, 
'  Devil  Dick,'  who  was  violent  to  madness.  His 
mother  alone  was  not  afraid  of  him.  She  had  a  spirit 
of  her  own.  On  one  occasion  she  went  over  a  ship 
at  Cork,  intending  to  make  purchases  from  contraband 
goods.  She  set  aside  chosen  ones,  but  was  stopped 
by  the  Excisemen,     She  looked  at  the  basket  full. 


EARLY   WEST   CARBERY  78 

raised  her  tiny  foot  (which  you  and  I,  dearest  A., 
inherit)  and  kicked  the  whole  collection  overboard 
into  the  Sea  ! 

"  That  same  foot  she  released  from  her  high-heeled 
shoe  on  arriving,  driven  from  Cork  in  a  '  Jarvey,' 
and,  when  the  Cocker  said  '  Stop  Madam,  you  haven't 
paid  ! '  she  threw  the  money  on  the  ground,  and 
with  her  shoe  she  dealt  him  a  smart  box  on  the  ear  and 
said, 

"  '  Take  that  before  the  Grand  Jury  !  ' 
(meaning  she  could  do  anything  and  would  not  get 
fined.) 

"  Une  maitresse  femme  !  " 

Thus  my  cousin  concludes  her  story,  not  with- 
out a  certain  approbation  of  our  ancestress. 

Indisputably  the  coming  of  the  Palefaces  slackened 
the  moral  fibre  of  Castle  Townshend  ;  the  fire  has  gone 
out  of  the  fights  and  the  heat  out  of  the  hatreds. 
I  do  not  claim  for  the  later  generations  a  higher 
standard  ;  peace  is  mainly  ensued  by  lack  of  concen- 
tration ;  it  is  not  so  much  that  we  forgive,  as  that  we 
forget.  I  ^egret  that  these  early  histories  do  not 
present  my  departed  relatives  in  a  more  attractive 
light,  but  personal  experience  has  taught  me  how 
infinitely  boring  can  be  the  virtues  of  other  people's 
families. 

A  strange  product  of  these  high  explosives  was  my 
father,  who,  as  was  said  of  another  like  unto  him,  was 
"  The  gentlest  crayture  ever  came  into  a  house." 
He  had  no  brothers  and  but  one  sister,  a  fact  that  did 
not,  I  think,  distress  my  grandparents,  who  were  in 
advance  of  their  period  in  considering  the  prevalent 
immense  families  ill-bred  ;  and  even  had  the  matter 
been  for  them  a  subject  of  regret,  they  had  at  least 
one  consolation — a  consolation  offered  in  a  similar 
case  to  a  cousin  of  Martin's — "  Afther  all,"  it  was 


74  IRISH  MEMORIES 

said,  "  if  ye  had  a  hundhred  of  them  ye  couldn't  have 
a  greater  variety." 

An  only  son,  with  a  solitary  sister,  brought  up  in 
the  days  when  the  difference  between  the  sexes  was 
clearly  defined  by  the  position  of  the  definite  article, 
"  an  only  son  "  being  by  no  means  in  the  same  case, 
grammatical  or  otherwise,  with  "  only  a  daughter," 
it  would  not  have  been  surprising  had  he  developed 
into  such  a  flower  of  culture  as  had  blossomed  in 
*'  Johnny  Wild."  I  expect  that  the  rare  and  pas- 
sionate devotion  of  his  father  to  his  mother  taught 
him  a  lesson  not  generally  inculcated  in  his  time. 
In  truth,  his  love  and  consideration  for  his  mother 
and  sister  amounted  to  anachronism  in  those  days, 
when  chivalry  was  mostly  relegated  to  the  Eglinton 
Tournament,  and  unselfishness  was  bracketed  with 
needlework  as  a  graceful  and  exclusive  attribute 
of  the  Ministering  Angel. 

Mrs.  Pierrepont  Mundy,  once  defined  the  two  men 
of  her  acquaintance  whom  most  she  delighted  to 
honour  as 

"  Preux  Chevaliers !  Christian  gentlemen,  who 
feed  their  dogs  from  the  dinner- table  !  " 

I  find  it  impossible  to  better  this  as  a  description 
of  my  father.  I  recognise  the  profound  convention- 
ality of  saying  that  dogs  and  children  adored  him, 
yet,  conventional  though  the  statement  may  be,  it 
is  inflicted  upon  me  by  the  facts  of  the  case.  In  him 
children  knew,  intuitively,  the  kindred  soul,  dogs 
recognised,  not  by  mere  intuition,  but  by  force  of 
intellect,  their  slave.  I  can  see  him  surreptitiously 
passing  forbidden  delicacies  from  his  plate  to  the 
silent  watchers  beneath  the  surface,  his  eyes  disin- 
genuously fixed  upon  the  window  to  divert  my 
mother's  suspicions,  and  I  can  still  hear  his  leisurely 


EARLY   WEST  CARBERY  75 

histories  of  two  imaginary  South  African  Lion-slayers, 
named,  with  a  massive  simpHcity,  Smith  and  Brown, 
whose  achievements  were  for  us,  as  children,  the  last 
possibility  of  romance. 

Children  alone  could  extract  from  him  the  tales 
of  various  feats  of  his  youth,  feats  in  which,  one 
supposes,  the  wild  blood  that  was  in  him  found  its 
outlet  and  satisfaction ;  of  the  savage  bull  on  to 
whose  back  he  had  dropped  fron  the  branch  of  a  tree, 
and  whom  he  had  then  ridden  in  glory  round  and  round 
the  field  ;  of  the  bulldog  who  jumped  at  the  nose  of 
a  young  half-trained  Arab  mare  when  my  father  was 
riding  her,  and  caught  it,  and  held  on.  And  so  did 
my  father,  while  the  mare  flung  herself  into  knots 
(and  how  either  dog  or  man  "  held  their  ho  wit  "  it  is 
hard  to  imagine).  The  bulldog  was  finally  detached 
with  a  pitchfork  by  one  Jerry  Hegarty,  who  must 
himself  have  shown  no  mean  skill  and  courage  in 
adventuring  into  the  whirl  of  that  nightmare  conflict, 
but  my  father  sat  it  out.  It  was  a  daughter  of  that 
mare,  named  Lalla  Rukh,  a  lovely  grey  (whom  I  can 
remember  as  a  creature  by  me  revered  and  adored, 
above,  perhaps,  any  earthly  thing),  who  was  being 
ridden  by  my  father  through  a  town  when  they  met 
a  brass  band.  Lalla  Rukh  first  attempted  flight, 
but  such  was  her  confidence  in  her  rider  that,  in 
the  end,  she  let  him  ride  her  up  to  the  big  drum, 
and,  in  further  token  of  devotion,  she  then,  heroically, 
put  her  nose  on  it.  One  imagines  that  the  big  drummer 
was  enough  of  a  gentleman  to  refrain  from  his  duties 
during  those  tense  moments,  but  the  rest  of  the  band 
blazed  on.  My  father  was  a  boy  of  seventeen  when  he 
got  his  commission  and  was  presently  quartered  at 
Birr,  where  he  acted  as  Whip  to  the  regimental  pack 
of  hounds.     There  is  an  authentic  story  of  a  hound, 


76  IRISH  MEMORIES 

that  my  grandfather  sent  to  Birr,  by  rail  and  coach, 
escaping  from  the  barracks,  and  making  his  way  back 
to  the  kennels  at  Drishane.  Birr  is  in  King's  County, 
and  the  journey,  even  across  country,  must  be  over  a 
hundred  miles.  (These  things  being  thus,  it  is  hard 
to  understand  why  any  dog  is  ever  lost.) 

My  father  was  in  the  Kaffir  wars  of  1843  and  1849, 
and  fought  right  through  the  Crimean  campaign,  being 
one  of  the  very  few  infantry  officers  who  won  all  the 
clasps  with  the  Crimean  medal.  One  of  his  brother 
officers  in  the  68th  Durham  Light  Infantry  has  told 
(I  quote  from  an  account  published  by  the  officer  in 
question)  "  of  an  incident  that  shows  the  coolness  and 
ready  daring  that  characterised  him.  On  the  morning 
of  the  battle  of  Inkermann,  5th  Nov.,  1854,  the  68th 
saw  a  body  of  troops  moving  close  by.  Owing  to  the 
fog  it  was  impossible  to  distinguish  if  these  were 
Russian  or  English.  It  was  of  the  utmost  importance, 
and  the  Colonel  of  the  68th  exclaimed,  '  What  would 
I  give  to  be  able  to  decide  !  ' 

"  Without  a  pause  Henry  Somerville  said,  '  I'll 
soon  let  you  know  !  '  And,  throwing  open  his  grey 
military  great-coat,  he  showed  the  scarlet  uniform 
underneath. 

"  In  a  second  a  storm  of  rifle  bullets  answered  the 
momentous  question,  thus  speedily  proving  that 
enemies,  and  not  friends,  formed  the  advancing 
troops." 

There  is  another  story  of  my  father's  turning 
back,  during  a  retirement  up  hill  under  heavy  fire, 
at  the  battle  of  the  Alma,  to  save  a  wounded 
private,  whom  he  carried  on  his  back  out  of  danger. 
But  not  from  him  did  we  hear  of  these  things. 
One  of  the  few  soldiering  stories  that  I  can  recollect 
hearing  from  him  was  in  connection  with  the  fighting 
proclivities  of  his  servant,  Con  DriscoU,  a  son  of  a 


EARLY   WEST  CARBERY  77 

tenant  who  had  followed  him  into  the  regiment. 
Con  had  been  in  a  row  of  no  small  severity  ;  his 
defence,  as  is  not  unusual,  took  the  form  of  reflections 
upon  the  character  of  his  adversary,  and  an  exposition 
of  his  own  self-restraint. 

"If  it  wasn't  that  I  knew  me  ordhers,"  he  said, 
*'  and  the  di-shiplin^  of  the  Sarvice,  I  wouldn't  lave 
him  till  I  danced  on  his  shesht !  " 


CHAPTER  VI 

HER  MOTHER 

I  HAVE  spoken  of  that  first  cousinhood  of  seventy, 
the  grandchildren  of  the  Chief  Justice,  of  whom  my 
mother  and  Martin's  were  not  the  least  notable 
members.  I  want  to  say  something  more  of  these 
two,  and  if  such  tales  as  Martin  and  I  have  remembered 
may  seem  sometimes  to  impinge  upon  the  Fifth  Com- 
mandment, I  would,  in  apology,  recall  the  old  story 
of  the  masquerade  at  which  Love  cloaked  himself 
in  laughter,  and  was  only  discovered  when  he  laughed 
till  he  cried,  and  they  saw  that  the  laughter  was 
assumed,  but  the  tears  were  real. 

I  have  come  upon  a  letter  of  my  cousin  Nannie's, 
undated,  unfortunately,  but  its  internal  evidence, 
indicating  for  her  an  age  not  far  exceeding  seven 
years,  would  place  it  in  or  about  the  year  1830. 

"  To  Mrs.  Charles  Fox  : 

"  My  dear  Mama, 

"  I  am  very  sorry  for  touching  that  stinking  little 
cat.  I'll  try  to-morrow  and  Teusday  if  I  can  do  as 
happy  and  as  well  without  touching  Dawny.  I  had 
once  before  my  birthday  a  little  holiness  in  my  heart 
and  for  two  days  I  was  trying  to  keep  it  in  and  I 
exceeded  a  little  in  it  but  alas  one  day  Satan  tempted 
me  and  one  day  I  kept  it  out  of  my  heart  and  then  I 


HER  MOTHER  79 

did  not  care  what  I  did  and  I  ware  very  bold.  One 
day  the  week  after  that  I  tried  without  touching 
Dawny  and  I  thought  myself  every  bit  as  much  happy 
but  I  was  tempted  tempted  tempted  another  day  : 
but  I  hope  to-morrow  morning  I  may  be  good  Mama 
and  that  there  will  be  one  day  that  I  may  please 
Mama 

"  Your  affectionate  daughter 

"  Nannie  Fox." 

The  crime  of  which  this  is  an  expression  of  repent- 
ance is  obscure.  That  the  repentance  was  not  un- 
tinged  by  indignation  with  the  temptation  is  obvious  ; 
but  why  should  she  not  have  "  touched  Dawny  "  ? 
I  am  reminded  of  a  companion  incident.  A  small 
boy,  of  whom  I  have  the  honour  to  be  godmother, 
was  privileged  to  come  upon  a  cache  of  carpenter's 
tools,  unhampered  by  the  carpenter.  He  cut  his 
fingers  and  was  sent  to  bed.  In  the  devotions  which 
he  subsequently  offered  up,  the  following  clause  was 
overheard, 

"  And  please  God,  be  more  careful  another  time, 
and  don't  let  me  touch  Willy  DriscoU's  tools." 

A  very  just  apportioning  of  the  blame.  My  cousin 
Nannie  put  it  all  upon  Satan,  who  was  the  more 
fashionable  deity  of  her  period. 

I  remember  that  my  aunt  Florence  Coghill  sat  up 
for  the  whole  of  one  night,  verifying  from  her  Bible  the 
existence  of  the  devil ;  a  fact  that  had  been  called 
in  question  by  a  reprobate  nephew.  She  came  down 
to  breakfast  wan,  but  triumphant,  and  flung  texts 
upon  the  nephew,  even  as  the  shields  were  cast  upon 
Tarpeia. 

Martin  had  many  stories  of  her  mother,  which, 
alas  !  she  has  not  written  down.  Many  of  them 
related  to  the  time  when  they  were  living  in  Dublin, 


80  IRISH  MEMORIES 

and  with  all  humility,  and  with  apologies  for  possible 
error,  I  will  try  to  remember  some  of  them.  Mrs. 
Martin  was  then  a  large  and  handsome  lady  of  impos- 
ing presence,  slow-moving,  stately,  and,  in  spite  of  a 
very  genial  manner,  distinctly  of  a  presence  to  inspire 
respect.  It  was  alleged  by  her  graceless  family  that 
only  by  aligning  her  with  some  fixed  and  distant 
object,  and  by  close  observation  of  the  one  in  relation 
to  the  other,  was  it  possible  to  see  her  move.  (One 
of  the  stories  turned  on  the  mistake  of  one  of  her 
children,  short-sighted  like  herself.  "  Oh,  there's 
Mamma  coming  at  last !  "  A  pause.  Then,  in  tones 
of  disappointment,  "  No,  it's  only  the  tramcar  !  ") 

Martin  once  wrote  that  "  the  essence  of  good  house- 
keeping is  to  make  people  eat  things  that  they  naturally 
dislike.  Ingredients  that  must,  for  the  sacred  sake  of 
economy,  be  utilised,  are  rarely  attractive,  but  the 
good  housekeeper  can  send  the  most  nauseous  of  them 
to  heaven,  in  a  curry,  as  in  a  chariot  of  fire." 

It  must  be  admitted  that  neither  artistic  house- 
keeping, nor  even  the  lower  branches  of  the  art,  were 
my  cousin  Nannie's  strong  suit.  It  is  related  of  her 
that  one  day,  returning  from  a  tea-party,  she  re- 
membered that  her  household  lacked  some  minor  need. 
Undeterred  by  her  tea-party  splendour  of  attire,  she 
sailed  serenely  into  a  small  and  unknown  grocer's 
shop  in  quest  of  what  she  needed.  The  grocer,  stout 
and  middle-aged,  lolled  on  his  fat  bare  arms  on  the 
counter,  reading  a  newspaper.  He  negligently  pro- 
duced the  requirement,  received  the  payment  for  it, 
and  then,  remarking  affably,  "  Ta  ta,  me  child  !  " 
returned  to  his  paper. 

My  cousin  Nannie,  whose  sense  of  the  ridiculous 
could  afflict  her  like  an  illness,  tottered  home  in 
tearful  ecstasies,  and  was  only  less  shattered  by  the 
condescension  of  the  grocer  than  by  another  tribute. 


HER  MOTHER  81 

somewhat  similar  in  kind.  She  had  a  singularly 
small  and  well-shaped  foot ;  a  fact  to  which  her  son 
Robert  was  wont  to  attribute  the  peculiarity  that 
her  shoe-strings  were  rarely  securely  fastened,  involving 
her  in  an  appeal  to  the  nearest  man  to  tie  them.  She 
returned  to  her  family  one  day  and  related  with  joy 
how,  as  she  passed  a  cabstand,  her  shoe  lace  had 
become  unfastened,  and  how  she  had  then  asked  a 
cabman  to  tie  it  for  her.  She  thanked  him  with  her 
usual  and  special  skill  in  such  matters,  and,  as  she 
slowly  moved  away,  she  was  pleased  to  hear  her 
cabman  remark  to  a  fellow  : 

"  That's  a  dam  pleshant  owld  heifer  !  " 

And  the  response  of  the  fellow : 
•    "  Ah,  Shakespeare  says  ye'll  always  know  a  rale 
lady  when  ye  see  her." 

Her  love  for  society  was  only  matched  by  her 
intolerance  of  being  bored.  There  was  a  recess  in 
her  bedroom,  possessed  of  a  small  window  and  a  heavy 
curtain.  To  this  one  day,  on  hearing  a  ring  at  the 
door,  she  hurriedly  repaired,  and  took  with  her  a 
chair  and  a  book.  She  heard  the  travelling  foot  of 
the  maid,  searching  for  her.  Then  the  curtain  was 
pushed  aside  and  the  maid's  face  appeared. 

"  Oh,  is  it  there  you  are  !  "  said  the  maid,  with  the 
satisfaction  of  the  finder  in  a  game  of  hide  and  seek. 
That  her  mistress  did  not  dash  her  book  in  her  face 
speaks  well  for  her  self-control. 

It  may  be  urged  that  Mrs.  Martin  might  have  spared 
herself  this  discomfiture  by  the  simpler  expedient 
of  leaving  directions  that  she  was  '*  Not  at  Home." 
But  this  shows  how  little  the  present  generation  can 
appreciate  the  consciences  of  the  last.  I  have  known 
my  mother  to  rush  into  the  garden  on  a  wet  day,  in 
order  that  the  servant  might  truthfully  say  she  was 
"  out." 


82  IRISH  MEMORIES 

"  Ah,  Ma'am,  't  was  too  much  trouble  you  put  on 
yourself,"  said  the  devoted  retainer  for  whom  the 
sacrifice  was  made.  "  God  knows  I'd  tell  a  bigger  lie 
than  that  for  you  !  And  be  glad  to  do  it !  "  (which 
was  probably  true,  if  only  from  the  artist's  point  of 
view). 

Mrs.  Martin's  contempt  for  danger  was  one  of  the 
many  points  wherein  she  differed  from  the  average 
woman  of  her  time.  Indeed,  it  cannot  be  said  that 
she  despised  it,  as,  quite  obviously,  she  enjoyed  it. 
Martin  has  told  of  how  she  and  her  mother  were 
caught  in  a  storm,  in  a  small  boat,  on  Lough  Corrib. 
Things  became  serious ;  one  boatman  dropped  his 
oar  and  prayed,  the  other  wept  but  continued  to 
row ;  Martin,  who  had  not  been  bred  to  boats  on 
Ross  Lake  for  nothing,  tugged  at  the  abandoned  oar 
of  the  supplicant.  Meanwhile  her  mother  sat  erect 
in  the  stern,  looking  on  the  tempest  in  as  unshaken 
a  mood  as  Shakespeare  could  have  desired,  and 
enjoying  every  moment  of  it.  Neither  where  horses 
were  concerned  did  she  know  fear.  I  have  been  with 
her  in  a  landau,  with  one  horse  trying  to  bolt,  while 
the  other  had  kicked  till  it  got  a  leg  over  the  trace. 
Help  was  at  hand,  and  during  the  readjustment  Mrs. 
Martin  firmly  retained  her  seat.  Her  only  anxiety 
was  lest  the  drive  might  have  to  be  given  up,  her 
only  regret  that  both  horses  had  not  bolted.  She 
said  she  liked  driving  at  a  good  round  pace.  An 
outside-car  might  do  anything  short  of  lying  down 
and  rolling,  without  being  able  to  shake  her  off ;  her 
son  Robert  used  to  say  of  her  that  on  an  outside- 
car  his  mother's  grasp  of  the  situation  was  analogous 
to  that  of  a  poached  egg  on  toast — both  being  practi- 
cally undetachable. 

How  different  was  she  from  her  first  cousin,  my 
mother,  who,  frankly  mid-Victorian,  proclaimed  her- 


HER  MOTHER  SB 

self  a  coward,  without  a  blush,  even  with  ostentation. 
When  the  much-used  label,  "  Mid- Victorian,"  is 
applied,  it  calls  up,  in  my  mind  at  least,  a  type  of 
which  the  three  primary  causes  are,  John  Leech's 
pictures,  "  The  Newcomes,"  and  Anthony  Trollope's 
massive  output.  Pondering  over  these  signs  of  that 
time,  I  withdraw  the  label  from  my  mother  and  her 
compeers.  Either  must  that  be  done,  or  the  letter 
"  i  "  substituted  for  the  "  a  "  in  label.  Let  us  think 
for  a  moment  of  Mrs.  Proudie,  of  "  The  Campaigner  "  ; 
of  Eleanor,  "  The  Warden's  "  daughter,  who  bursts 
into  floods  of  tears  as  a  solution  to  all  situations  ;  of 
the  insufferable  Amelia  Osborne.  Consider  John 
Leech's  females,  the  young  ones,  turbaned  and 
crinolined,  wholly  idiotic,  flying  with  an  equal  terror 
from  bulls  and  mice,  ogling  Lord  Dundreary  and  his 
whiskers,  being  scored  off  by  rude  little  boys.  And 
the  elderly  women,  whose  age,  if  nothing  else,  marked 
them,  in  mid- Victorian  times,  as  fit  subjects  for 
ridicule,  invariably  hideous,  jealous,  spiteful,  nagging, 
and  even  more  grossly  imbecile  than  their  juniors. 
Thackeray  and  Trollope  between  them  poisoned  the 
wells  in  the  'fifties,  and  the  water  has  hardly  cleared 
yet.  Nevertheless,  with  however  mutinous  a  mind 
their  books  are  approached,  their  supreme  skill, 
their  great  authority,  cannot  be  withstood ;  their 
odious  women  must  needs  be  authentic.  I  am  there- 
fore forced  to  the  conclusion  that  Martin's  mother, 
and  mine,  and  their  sisters,  and  their  cousins  and 
their  aunts  were  exceptions  to  the  rule  that  all  mid- 
Victorian  women  were  cats,  and  I  can  only  deposit 
the  matter  upon  that  crowded  ash-heap,  that  vast 
parcel-office,  adored  of  the  bromidic,  "  the  knees  of 
the  Gods,"  there  to  be  left  till  called  for. 

«  *  3iC  Nc  ♦ 

There  is  a  song  that  my  mother  used  to  sing  to  us 

g2 


84  IRISH  MEMORIES 

when  we  were  children,  of  which  I  can  now  remember 
only  fragments,  but  what  I  can  recall  of  it  is  so 
beautifully  typical  of  the  early  Victorian  young  lady, 
and  of  what  may  be  called  the  Bonnet  and  Shawl 
attitude  towards  the  Lover,  that  a  verse  or  two  shall 
be  transcribed.  I  believe  it  used  to  be  sung  at  the 
house  of  my  grandmother  (Anna  Maria  Coghill,  nie 
Bushe),  in  Cheltenham,  by  one  of  the  many  literary 
and  artistic  dandies  who  hung  about  her  and  her 
handsome  daughters.  Lord  Lytton,  then  Sir  Edward 
Bulwer  Lytton,  was  one  of  these,  and  he  and  my 
grandmother  were  among  the  first  amateur  experi- 
menters in  mesmerism,  thought-reading,  and  clair- 
voyance, as  might  have  been  expected  from  the  future 
author  of  "  Zanoni,"  and  from  the  mother  of  my 
mother  (who  was  wont,  with  her  usual  entire  frank- 
ness, to  declare  herself  "  the  most  curious  person  in 
the  world,"  i.e.  the  most  inquisitive). 

I  do  not  know  the  name  of  the  song  or  of  its 
composer.  It  has  a  most  suitable,  whining,  peevish 
little  tune ;  my  mother  used  to  sing  it  to  us  with 
intense  dramatic  expression,  and  it  was  considered 
to  be  a  failure  if  the  last  verse  did  not  leave  my 
brother  and  me  dissolved  in  tears.  The  song  is  in 
the  form  of  a  dialogue  between  the  Lady  and  the 
Lover,  and  the  Lady  begins  : 

"  So  so  so.  Sir,  you've  come  at  last ! 

I  thought  you'd  come  no  more, 
I've  waited  with  my  bonnet  on 

From  one  till  half -past  four  ! 
You  know  I  hate  to  sit  at  home 

Uncertain  where  to  go, 
You'll  break  my  heart,  I  know  you  will. 

If  you  continue  so  !  " 

(The  tune  demands  the  repetition  of  the  last  two 
lines,  but  it,  I  regret  to  say,  cannot  be  given  here.) 


HER  MOTHER  85 

One  sees  her  drooping  on  a  high  chair  by  the  window 
(which  of  course  is  closed),  her  ringlets  losing  their 
curl,  her  cheeks  their  colour.  The  Lover  takes  a 
high  hand. 

"  Pooh  !  pooh  !  my  dear  !  Dry  up  your  tears," 
he  begins,  arrogantly,  and  goes  on  to  ask  for  trouble 
by  explaining  that  the  delay  was  caused  by  his 
having  come  "down  Grosvenor  Gate  Miss  Fanny's 
eye  to  catch,"  and  he  ends  with  defiance — 

"  I  won't,  I  swear,  I  won't  be  made 
To  keep  time  like  a  watch  !  " 

The  Lady  repHes  : 

"  What !  Fanny  Grey  !   Ah,  now  indeed 
I  understand  it  all ! 
I  saw  you  making  love  to  her 
At  Lady  Gossip's  ball !  " 
"  My  life,  my  soul !  My  dearest  Jane  ! 
I  love  but  you  alone  I 
I  never  thought  of  Fanny  Grey  ! 
(How  tiresome  she's  grown  ! ) 
I  never  thought  of  Fanny  Grey ! 
(How  tiresome  she's  grown !)  " 

The  last  phrase  an  aside  to  the  moved  audience. 
"  She  "  was  his  so-called  "  dearest  Jane  "  I  We 
thrilled  at  the  perfidy,  which  lost  nothing  from  my 
mother's  delivery. 

And  then  poor  Jane's  reproaches,  and  his  impudent 
defence. 

"  Oh  Charles,  I  wonder  that  the  earth 
Don't  open  where  you  stand  ! 
By  the  Heaven  that's  above  us  both, 
I  saw  you  kiss  her  hand  !  " 
"  You  didn't  dear,  and  if  you  did, 
Supposing  it  is  true. 
When  a  pretty  woman  shows  her  rings 
What  can  a  poor  man  do  !  " 


86  IRISH  MEMORIES 

But  it  was  always  the  last  lines  of  the  last  verse 
that  touched  the  fount  of  tears.  Charles,  with  specious 
excuses,  has  made  his  farewells ;  she  watches  him 
from  the  window  (still  closed,  no  doubt). 

"  Goodbye,  goodbye,  we'll  meet  again 
On  one  of  these  fine  days  !  " 

he  has  warbled  and  departed.       And  then  her  cry 
(to  the  audience) : 

"  He's  turned  the  street,  I  knew  he  would  ! 
He's  gone  to  Fanny  Grey's  ! 
He's  turned  the  street,  I  knew  he  would. 
He's  gone — to  Fanny  Grey's  !  " 

I  shall  never  forget  that  absurd  tune,  and  its  final 
feeble  wail  of  despair ;  and  inextricably  blended  with 
it  is  the  memory  of  how  lusciously  my  brother  and  I 
used  to  weep,  even  while  we  clamoured  for  an  encore. 


CHAPTER   VII 

MY    MOTHER 

The  men  and  women,  but  more  specially  the  women, 
of  my  mother's  family  and  generation  are  a  lost  pattern, 
a  vanished  type. 

I  once  read  a  fragment,  by  John  Davidson,  that 
appeared  some  years  ago  in  the  Outlook.  I  grieve  that 
I  have  lost  the  copy  and  do  not  remember  its  date. 
It  was  called,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  "  The  Last  of 
the  Alanadoths,"  and  purported  to  be  the  final  page 
of  the  history  of  a  great  and  marvellous  tribe,  whose 
stature  was  twice  that  of  ordinary  beings,  whose 
strength  was  as  the  strength  of  ten,  and  in  whose 
veins  blue  and  glittering  flame  ran,  instead  of  blood. 
These,  having  in  various  ways  successfully  staggered 
ordinary  humanity,  all  finally  embarked  upon  an 
ice-floe,  and  were  lost  in  the  Polar  mists.  "  Thus 
perished,"  ends  the  chronicle,  "  the  splendid  and 
puissant  Alanadoths  !  " 

I  have  now  forgotten  many  of  the  details,  but  I 
remember  that  when  I  read  it,  it  irresistibly  suggested 
to  me  the  thought  of  my  mother  and  her  sisters  and 
brothers.  Tall,  and  fervent,  and  flaming,  full  of  what 
seemed  like  quenchless  vitality,  their  blood,  if  not 
flame,  yet  of  that  most  ardent  blend  of  Irish  and 
English  that  has  produced  the  finest  fighters  in  the 
world.       And  now,   like  the  splendid  and   puissant 


88  IRISH  MEMORIES 

Alanadoths,  they  also  have  vanished  (save  one,  the 
stoutest  fighter  of  them  all)  into  the  mists  that  shroud 
the  borderland  between  our  life  and  the  next. 

They  kept  their  youthful  outlook  undimmed,  and 
took  all  things  in  their  stride,  without  introspection 
or  hesitation.  Their  unflinching  conscientiousness, 
their  violent  church-going  (I  speak  of  the  sisters), 
were  accompanied  by  a  whole-souled  love  of  a  spree, 
and  a  wonderful  gift  for  a  row.  Or  for  an  argument. 
There  are  many  who  still  remember  those  great 
arguments  that,  on  the  smallest  provocation,  would 
rise,  and  stir,  and  deepen,  and  grow,  burgeoning 
like  a  rose  of  storm  among  the  Alanadoths.  They 
meant  little  at  the  moment,  and  nothing  afterwards, 
but  while  they  lasted  they  were  awe-inspiring.  It 
is  said  that  a  stranger,  without  their  gates,  heard 
from  afar  one  such  dispute,  and  trembling,  asked 
what  it  might  mean. 

"  Oh,  that !  "  said  a  little  girl,  with  sang-froid, 
"  That's  only  the  Coghills  roaring.'* 

(As  a  dweller  in  the  Hebrides  would  speak  of  a 
North- Atlantic  storm.) 

My  mother  was  a  person  entirely  original  in  her 
candour,  and  with  a  point  of  view  quite  untrammelled 
by  convention.  Martin  and  I  have  ever  been  careful 
to  abstain  from  introducing  portraiture  or  caricature 
into  our  books,  but  we  have  not  denied  that  the 
character  of  "  Lady  Dysart "  (in  "  The  Real  Char- 
lotte ")  was  largely  inspired  by  my  mother. 

She,  as  we  said  of  Lady  Dysart,  said  the  things  that 
other  people  were  afraid  to  think. 

"  Poetry  !  "  she  declaimed,  "  I  Jiate  poetry— at 
least  good  poetry  !  " 

Her  common  sense  often  amounted  to  inspiration. 
It  happened  one  Christmas  that  my  sister  and  I 
found   ourselves   in   difficulties   in   the   matter   of  a 


MY  MOTHER  89 

suitable  offering  to  an  old  servant  of  forty  years' 
standing ;  she  was  living  on  a  pension,  her  fancies 
were  few,  her  needs  none.  A  very  difficult  subject 
for  benefaction.  My  mother,  however,  unhesitatingly 
propounded  a  suggestion. 

"  Give  her  a  nice  shroud  !  There's  nothing  in  the 
world  she'd  like  as  well  as  that !  " 

Which  was  probably  true,  but  was  a  counsel  of 
perfection  that  we  were  too  feeble  to  accept. 

It  is  indeed  indisputable  that  my  mother  breathed 
easily  a  larger  air  than  the  lungs  of  her  children  could 
compete  with.  Handsome,  impetuous,  generous,  high- 
spirited,  yet  with  the  softest  and  most  easily-entreated 
heart,  she  was  like  a  summer  day,  with  white  clouds 
sailing  high  in  a  clear  sky,  and  a  big  wind  blowing. 
Hers  was  the  gift  of  becoming,  without  conscious 
effort,  the  rallying  point  of  any  entertainment.  It 
was  she  who  never  failed  to  supply  the  saving  salt 
of  a  dull  dinner-party ;  her  inveterate  joie-de-vivre 
made  a  radiance  that  struck  responsive  sparkles  from 
her  surroundings,  whatever  they  might  be. 

She  was  a  brilliant  pianiste,  and  played  with  the 
same  spirit  with  which  she  tackled  the  other  affairs 
of  life.  She  was  renowned  as  an  accompanist,  having 
been  trained  to  that  most  onerous  and  perilous  office 
by  an  accomplished  and  exacting  elder  brother — and 
nothing  can  be  as  relentlessly  exacting  as  a  brother 
who  sings — and  she  had  a  gift  of  reading  music,  with 
entire  facility,  that  is  as  rare  among  amateurs  as  it  is 
precious. 

Music,  books,  pictures,  politics,  were  in  her  blood. 
Music,  with  plenty  of  tune  ;  painting,  with  plenty  of 
colour  and  a  rigid  adherence  to  fact ;  novels,  compact 
of  love-making ;  and  politics,  of  the  most  implacable 
party  brand.  Alas  !  she  did  not  live  to  see  many  of 
our  books,  but  I  fear  that  such  as  she  did  see,  with 


90  IRISH  MEMORIES 

their  culpable  economy  of  either  love-makings  or 
happy  endings,  were  a  disappointment  to  her.  In 
her  opinion  the  characters  should  leave  a  story,  as 
the  occupants  left  Noah's  Ark,  in  couples.  I  remember 
the  indignation  in  her  voice  when,  having  finished 
reading  "  An  Irish  Cousin,"  she  said  : 

"  But  you  never  said  who  Mimi  Burke  married." 

Those  who  have  done  us  the  honour  of  reading  that 
early  work  will,  I  think,  admit  that  our  description 
of  Miss  Mimi  Burke  might  have  exonerated  us  from 
the  necessity  of  providing  her  with  a  husband. 

My  mother  was  one  of  the  most  thorough  and 
satisfying  letter-writers  of  a  family  skilled  in  that 
art,  having  in  a  high  degree  the  true  instinct  in  the 
matter  of  material,  and  knowing  how  to  separate  the 
wheat  from  the  chaff  (and — Men  entendu — to  give  the 
preference  to  the  chaff).  She  was  a  Woman 
Suffragist,  unfaltering,  firm,  and  logical ;  a  philan- 
thropist, practical  and  energetic. 

"  Where'd  we  be  at  all  if  it  wasn't  for  the  Colonel's 
Big  Lady !  "  said  the  hungry  country  women,  in 
the  Bad  Times,  scurrying,  barefooted,  to  her  in  any 
emergency,  to  be  fed  and  doctored  and  scolded.  She 
was  a  Spiritualist,  wide-minded,  eager,  rejoicing  in 
the  occult,  mysterious  side  of  things,  with  the  same 
enthusiasm  with  which  she  faced  her  sunshiny  everyday 
life.  Not  that  it  was  all  sunshine.  My  grandfather, 
Thomas  Somerville,  of  Drishane,  died  in  1882.  With 
him,  as  Martin  has  said  of  his  contemporary,  her 
father,  passed  the  last  of  the  old  order,  the  unquestioned 
lords  of  the  land.  Mr.  Gladstone's  successive  Land 
Acts  were  steadily  making  themselves  felt,  and  my 
father  and  mother,  like  many  another  Irish  father 
and  mother,  began  to  learn  what  it  was  to  have,  as  a 
tenant  said  of  himself,  "  a  long  serious  family,  and  God 
knows  how  I'll  make  the  two  ends  of  the  candle  meet ! " 


FROM    THE    GARDEN,    DRISHA: 


DRISHANE    HOUSE. 


^51 

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^  fl%^.  _  ■■■■ /y 

4. 

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Hd^laB^Eia 

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■mm 

i. 

JIYDKANGEAS,,    DKISHANE    AVENUE. 


MY  MOTHER  91 

I  marvel  now,  when  I  think  of  their  courage  and 
their  gallant  self-denial.  The  long,  but  far  from 
serious,  family,  numbering  no  less  than  five  sons  and 
two  daughters,  thought  little  of  Land  Acts  at  the 
time,  and  took  life  as  lightly  as  ever.  The  stable  was 
cut  down,  but  there  were  no  hounds  then,  and  I  was 
in  the  delirium  of  a  first  break  into  oil  colours,  after 
a  spring  spent  in  Paris  in  drawing  and  painting,  and 
even  horses  were  negligible  quantities.  There  was  no 
change  made  in  the  destined  professions  for  the  sons ; 
it  was  on  themselves  that  my  father  and  mother 
economised ;  and  with  effort,  and  forethought,  and 
sheer  self-denial,  somehow  they  "  made  good,"  and 
pulled  through  those  bad  years  of  the  early  'eighties, 
when  rents  were  unpaid,  and  crops  failed,  and  Parnell 
and  his  wolf-pack  were  out  for  blood,  and  the  English 
Government  flung  them,  bit  by  bit,  the  property  of 
the  only  men  in  Ireland  who,  faithful  to  the  pitch  of 
folly,  had  supported  it  since  the  days  of  the  Union. 
When  the  Russian  woman  threw  the  babies  to  the 
wolves,  at  least  they  were  her  own. 

I  have  claimed  for  my  mother  moral  courage  and 
self-denial,  and,  in  making  good  that  claim,  said  that 
the  stable  establishment  at  Brisbane — never  a  large 
one — had  been  cut  down.  I  feel  I  ought  to  admit  that 
this  particular  economy  cannot  be  said  to  have 
afflicted  her.  She  had  an  unassailable  conviction 
that  every  horse  was  "  at  heart  a  rake."  Though  she 
was  not  specially  active,  no  rabbit  could  bolt  before 
a  ferret  more  instantaneously  than  she  from  a  carriage 
at  the  first  wink  of  one  of  the  "  bright  eyes  of  danger." 
No  horse  was  quiet  enough  for  her,  few  were  too 
old. 

"  Slugs  ?  "  she  has  said,  in  defence  of  her  carriage- 
horses,  "  I  love  slugs  !  I  adore  them  !  And  slugs  or 
no,  I  will  not  be  driven  by  B "  (a  massive  sailor 


92  IRISH  MEMORIES 

son).      "  He's  no  more  use  on  the  box  than  a  blue 
bottle !  " 

There  was  an  occasion  when  she  was  discovered 
halfway  up  a  ladder,  faintly  endeavouring  to  hang  a 
picture,  and  unable  to  do  so  by  reason  of  physical 
terror.  She  was  restored  to  safety,  and  with  recovered 
vigour  she  countered  reproaches  with  the  singular  yet 
pertinent  inquiry  :  "  May  I  ask,  am  I  a  paralysed 
babe  ?  " 

Her  similes  were  generally  unexpected,  but  were 
invariably  to  the  point.  It  often  pleases  me  to  try 
to  recall  some  of  the  flowers  of  fancy  that  she  has 
lavished  upon  my  personal  appearance.  I  think  I 
should  begin  by  saying  that  her  ideal  daughter  had 
been  denied  to  her.  This  being  should  have  had  hair 
of  dazzling  gold,  blue  eyes  as  big  as  mill-wheels,  and 
should  have  been  incessantly  enmeshed  in  the  most 
lurid  flirtation.  My  eyes  did  indeed  begin  by  being 
blue,  but,  as  was  said  by  an  old  nurse  who  held  by 
the  Somerville  tradition  of  brown  ones, 

"  By  the  help  of  the  Lord  they'll  change !  " 

They  did  change,  but  as  the  assistance  was  with- 
drawn when  they  had  merely  attained  to  a  non- 
committal grey,  neither  in  eyes,  nor  in  the  other 
conditions,  did  I  gratify  my  mother's  aspirations. 

I  have  been  at  a  dinner-party  with  her,  and  have 
found,  to  my  great  discomfort,  her  eyes  dwelling 
heavily  upon  my  head.  Her  face  wore  openly  the 
expression  of  a  soul  in  torment.  I  knew  that  in  some 
way,  dark  to  me,  I  was  the  cause.  After  dinner  she 
took  an  early  opportunity  of  assuring  me  that  my 
appearance  had  made  her  long  to  go  under  the  dinner- 
table. 

"  Never,"  she  said,  "  have  I  seen  your  hair  so 
abominable.  It  was  like  a  collection  of  filthy  little 
furze-bushes." 


MY  MOTHER  98 

Which  was  distressing  enough,  but  not  more  so 
than  being  told  on  a  similar  occasion,  and,  I  think, 
for  similar  reasons,  that  I  was  "  not  like  any  human 
young  lady,"  and  again,  she  has  seriously,  even  with 
agony,  informed  me  that  I  was  "  the  Disgrace  of 
Castle  Townshend !  " 

It  was  a  sounding  title,  with  something  historic 
and  splendid  about  it. 

"  The  Butcher  of  Anjou  !  "  "  The  Curse  of  Crom- 
well !  "    occur  to  me  as  parallel  instances. 

It  was  my  privilege — sometimes,  I  think,  my  mis- 
fortune— to  have  succeeded  my  mother  as  the  un- 
official player  of  the  organ  in  Castlehaven  Church,  and 
her  criticisms  of  the  music,  and  specially  of  the  choir, 
were  as  unfailing  as  unsparing. 

"  They  sang  like  infuriated  pea-hens  !  Never  have 
I  heard  such  a  collection  of  screech-cats  I  You  should 
have  drowned  them  with  the  great  diapason  !  " 

Not  long  ago,  among  some  of  her  papers,  I  found  a 
home-made  copybook,  of  blue  foolscap  paper,  with 
lines  very  irregularly  ruled  on  it,  and,  on  the  lines, 
still  more  irregular  phalanxes  of  "  pothooks  and 
hangers."  Further  investigation  discovered  my  own 
name,  and  a  date  that  placed  me  at  something  under 
six  years  old ;  and  at  the  foot  of  each  page  was 
my  mother's  careful  and  considered  judgment  upon 
my  efforts.  "Middling,"  "Careless,"  "Bobbish," 
"  Naughty,"  "  Abominable,"  and  then  a  black  day, 
when  it  was  written,  plain  for  all  men  to  see,  that  I 
was  not  only  abominable,  but  also  naughty. 

"  Naughty  and  Abominable,"  there  it  stands,  and 
shows  not  only  my  early  criminality,  but  my  mother's 
enchanting  sincerity.  What  young  mamma,  of  five 
or  six  and  twenty,  is  there  to-day  who  would  thus 
faithfully  allot  praise  or  blame  to  her  young.  I  feel 
safe  in  saying  that  the  naughtier  and  more  abominable 


94  IRISH  MEMORIES 

the  copy,  the  more  inevitably  would  it  be  described 
as  either  killing  or  sweet. 

In  reference  to  this  special  page,  I  may  add  that, 
although  I  regard  myself  as  a  reliable  opinion  in 
calligraphy,  I  am  unable  to  detect  any  perceptible 
difference  between  the  pothooks  and  hangers  of  the 
occasion  when  I  was  bobbish,  or  those  of  that  day  of 
wrath  when  I  was  both  naughty  and  abominable. 

Amongst  other  episodes  I  cherish  an  unforgettable 
picture  of  my  mother  having  her  fortune  told  by  her 
hand.  (A  criminal  act,  as  we  have  recently  learned, 
and  one  that  under  our  enlightened  laws  might  have 
involved  heavy  penalties.) 

The  Sibyl  was  a  little  lady  endowed  with  an  unusual 
share  of  that  special  variety  of  psychic  faculty  that 
makes  the  cheiromant,  and  also  with  a  gift,  almost 
rarer,  of  genuine  enthusiasm  for  the  good  qualities 
of  others,  an  innocent  and  whole-souled  creator  and 
worshipper  of  heroes,  if  ever  there  were  one.  To  her 
did  my  mother  confide  her  hand,  her  pretty  hand, 
with  the  shell  pink  palm,  and  the  blush  on  the  Mount 
of  Venus,  that  she  had  inherited  from  her  mother, 
the  Chief's  daughter. 

"  Intensely  nervous  !  "  pronounced  the  Sibyl  (who 
habitually  talked  in  italics  and  a  lovable  Cork  brogue), 
looking  at  the  maze  of  delicate  lines  that  indicate  the 
high-strung  temperament.      "  Adores  her  children  !  " 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it !  "  says  my  mother,  flinging  up 
her  head,  in  a  way  she  had,  like  a  stag,  and  regarding 
with  a  dauntless  eye  her  two  grinning  daughters. 

The  Sibyl  swept  on,  dealing  with  line  and  mount 
and  star,  going  from  strength  to  strength  in  the 
exposition  till,  at  the  line  of  the  heart,  she  came  to  a 
dead  set. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Somerville  !  What  do  I  see  ?  Cownfless 
flirtations  !  !     And  Oh — "  (a  long  squeal  of  sympathy 


MY  MOTHER  95 

and  excitement)  "  Four  !  Yes  !  One — Two — Three 
—Four  Great  Passions  !  " 

At  this  the  ecstasy  of  my  mother  knew  no  bounds. 
"  Four,  Miss  X.  !     Are  you  sure  ?  " 

Miss  X.  was  certain.  She  expounded  and  amplified, 
and  having  put  the  Four  Great  Passions  on  a  basis 
of  rock,  proceeded  with  her  elucidation  of  lesser 
matters ;  but  it  was  evident  that  my  mother's 
attention  was  no  longer  hers. 

"  I'm  trying  to  remember  who  the  Four  Passions 
were,"  she  said  that  evening  to  one  of  her  first  cousins 
(who  might  be  supposed  to  know  something  of  her 
guilty  past),  and  to  my  sister,  "  There  was  Charlie 

B .      He'll  do  for  one— and    L.   W. !— that's 

two — and  then — Oh,  yes  ! — then  there  was    S.  B I 

Minnie !    Was  I  in  love  with  S.  B ?  "  She  paused  for 

an  answer  that  her  cousin  was  incapable,  for  more 
reasons  than  the  obvious  one,  of  giving. 

My  mother  resumed  the  delicious  inquiry. 

"  Well — "  she  said,  musingly,  "  Anyhow,  that's 
only  three.     Now,  who  was  the  fourth  ?  " 

My  sister  Hildegarde,  who  was  young  and  inclined 
to  be  romantic,  said  languish ingly, 

"  Why,  of  course  it  was  Papa,  Mother  !  " 

My  father  and  mother's  mutual  love  and  devotion 
were  as  delightful  an  example  of  what  twenty-five 
years  of  happy  married  life  bestows  as  can  well  be 
conceived,  and  I  think  Hildegarde  was  justified.  My 
mother,  however,  regarded  her  with  wide  open  blue 
eyes,  almost  sightless  from  the  dazzle  of  dreams — 
dreams  of  the  four  reckless  and  dangerous  beings  who 
had  galloped,  hopeless  and  frenzied,  into  darkness 
(not  to  say  oblivion)  for  love  of  her— dreams  of  her 
own  passionate,  heartbroken  despair  when  they  had 
thus  galloped. 

"What?  .  .  .     What?  .  .  ."   she   demanded,   be- 


96  IRISH  MEMORIES 

wilderedly,  sitting  erect,  with  eyes  like  stars,  looking 
as  Juno  might  have  looked  had  her  peacock  turned 
upon  her,  "  What  do  you  say  ?  " 

"  There  was  Papa,  Mother,"  repeated  Hildegarde 
firmly,  but  not  (she  says)  reprovingly,  '^'  He  was  the 
fourth,  of  course  I  " 

''Papa???  .  .  ." 

The  preposterous  dowdiness  of  this  suggestion 
almost  deprived  my  mother  of  the  power  of  speech. 

"  Paj)a  /  .  .  .     Paugh  !  " 

*  *  ♦  4e  * 

Thus  did  the  splendid  and  puissant  Alanadoths 
dispose  of  the  cobweb  conventions  of  mere  mortals. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

HERSELF 

"  It  was  on  a  Sunday,  the  eleventh  day  of  a  lovely 
June,"  her  sister,  Mrs.  Edward  Hewson,  has  written, 
"  that  Violet  entered  the  family.  A  time  of  roses, 
when  Ross  was  at  its  best,  with  its  delightful  old- 
fashioned  gardens  fragrant  with  midsummer  flowers, 
and  its  shady  walks  at  their  darkest  and  greenest  as 
they  wandered  through  deep  laurel  groves  to  the  lake. 
She  was  the  eleventh  daughter  that  had  been  born  to 
the  house,  and  she  received  a  cold  welcome. 

"  *  I  am  glad  the  Misthress  is  well,'  said  old  Thady 
Connor,  the  steward ;  '  but  I  am  sorry  for  other 
news.* 

*'  I  think  my  father's  feelings  were  the  same,  but  he 
said  she  was  *  a  pretty  little  child.'  My  mother 
comforted  herself  with  the  reflection  that  girls  were 
cheaper  than  boys. 

*'  At  a  year  old  she  was  the  prettiest  child  I  ever  sa\^, 
with  her  glorious  dark  eyes,  and  golden  hair,  and  lovely 
colour  ;  a  dear  little  child,  but  quite  unnoticed  in 
the  nursery.  Charlie  was  the  child  brought  forward. 
I  think  the  unnoticed  childhood  had  its  effect.  She 
lived  her  own  life  apart.  Then  came  the  reign  of 
the  Governesses,  and  their  delight  in  her.  I  never 
remember  the  time  she  could  not  read,  and  she  played 
the  piano  at  four  years  old  very  well.     (At  twelve 

''  H 


98  IRISH  MEMORIES 

years  old  she  took  first  prize  for  piano-playing  at  an 
open  competition,  held  in  Dublin,  for  girls  up  to 
eighteen.) 

"  Her  great  delight  at  four  or  five  years  old  was  to 
slip  into  the  drawing-room  and  read  the  illustrated 
editions  of  the  poets.  Her  favourite  was  an  edition 
of  Milton,  with  terrifying  pictures ;  this  she  read 
with  delight.  One  day  there  was  an  afternoon  party, 
and,  as  usual,  Violet  stole  into  the  drawing-room  and 
was  quickly  engrossed  in  her  loved  Milton,  entirely 
oblivious  of  the  company.  Later  on,  she  was  found 
fast  asleep,  with  her  head  resting  on  the  large  volume. 
The  scene  is  present  with  me  ;  the  rosy  little  face,  and 
the  golden  hair  resting  on  the  book. 

*'  I  remember  that  Henry  H said  '  Some  day  I 

shall  boast  that  I  knew  Violet  as  a  child  ! '  " 

She  was  christened  Violet  Florence,  by  her  mother's 
cousin,  Lord  Plunket,  afterwards  Archbishop  of 
Dublin,  in  the  drawing-room  at  Ross,  the  vessel  em- 
ployed for  the  rite  being,  she  has  assured  me,  the 
silver  slop-basin,  and  at  Ross  she  spent  the  first  ten 
happy  years  of  her  life. 

I,  also,  had  a  happy  childhood,  full  of  horses  and 
dogs  and  boats  and  dangers  (which  latter  are  the 
glory  of  life  to  any  respectable  child  with  suitable 
opportunity),  but  after  I  had  seen  Ross  I  could  almost 
have  envied  Martin  and  her  brother,  Charlie,  nearest 
to  her  in  age,  their  suzerainty  over  Ross  demesne. 

"  I  thravelled  Ireland,"  said  someone,  "  and  afther 
all,  there's  great  heart  in  the  County  of  Cork  !  ",  and 
I  am  faithful  to  my  own  county  ;  but  there  is  a  special 
magic  in  Galway,  in  its  people  and  in  its  scenery,  and 
for  me,  Ross,  and  its  lake  and  its  woods,  is  Galway. 
The  beauty  of  Ross  is  past  praising.  I  think  of  it  as 
I  saw  it  first,  on  a  pensive  evening  of  early  spring, 
still  and  grey,  with  a  yellow  spear-head  of  light  low 


HERSELF  99 

in  the  west.  Still  and  grey  was  the  lake,  too,  with 
the  brown  mountain,  Croagh-Keenan,  and  the  grey- 
sky,  with  that  spear-thrust  of  yellow  light  in  it,  lying 
deep  in  the  wide,  quiet  water,  that  was  furrowed  now 
and  then  by  the  flapping  rush  of  a  coot,  or  streaked 
with  the  meditative  drift  of  a  wild  duck ;  farther 
back  came  the  tall  battalions  of  reeds,  thronging  in 
pale  multitudes  back  to  the  shadowy  woods  ;  and  for 
foreground,  the  beautiful,  broken  line  of  the  shore, 
with  huge  boulders  of  limestone  scattered  on  it, 
making  black  blots  in  the  pearl-grey  of  the  shallows. 

On  higher  ground  above  the  lake  stands  the  old 
house,  tall  and  severe,  a  sentinel  that  keeps  several 
eyes,  all  of  them  intimidating,  on  all  around  it.  The 
woods  of  Annagh,  of  Bullivawnen,  of  Cluinamurnyeen, 
trail  down  to  the  lake  side,  with  spaces  of  grass,  and 
spaces  of  hazel,  and  spaces  of  bog  among  them.  I 
have  called  the  limestone  boulders  blots,  but  that  was 
on  an  evening  in  February  ;  if  you  were  to  see  them  on 
a  bright  spring  morning,  as  they  lie  among  primroses 
at  the  lip  of  the  lake,  you  would  think  them  a  decora- 
tion, a  collar  of  gems,  that  respond  to  the  suggestions 
of  the  sky,  and  are  blue,  or  purple,  or  grey,  bright  or 
sullen,  as  it  requires  of  them.  Things,  also,  to  make  a 
child  delirious  with  their  possibilities.  One  might 
jump  from  one  huge  stone  to  another,  till,  especially 
in  a  dry  summer  when  the  lake  was  low,  one  might 
find  oneself  far  out,  beyond  even  the  Turf  Quay,  or 
Swans'  Island,  whence  nothing  but  one's  own  prowess 
could  ever  restore  one  to  home  and  family.  If  other 
stimulant  were  needed,  it  was  supplied  by  the  thought 
of  the  giant  pike,  who  were  known  to  inhabit  the 
outer  depths.  One  of  them,  stuffed  and  varnished, 
honoured  the  hall  at  Ross  with  its  presence.  It  looked 
big  and  wicked  enough  to  pull  down  a  small  girl  as 
easily  as  a  minnow. 

H  2 


100  IRISH  MEMORIES 

When  I  first  went  to  Ross,  a  grown-up  young  woman, 
I  found  that  seduction  of  the  boulders,  and  of  the 
chain  of  leaps  that  they  suggested,  very  potent. 
The  attraction  of  the  pike  also  was  not  to  be  denied. 
(We  used  to  try  to  shoot  them  with  a  shot-gun,  and 
sometimes  succeeded.)  What  then  must  the  lake  not 
have  meant  to  its  own  children  ? 

I  don't  suppose  that  any  little  girl  ever  had  more 
accidents  than  Martin.  Entirely  fearless  and  reckless, 
and  desperately  short-sighted,  full  of  emulation  and 
the  irrepressible  love  of  a  lark,  scrapes,  in  the  physical 
as  well  as  the  moral  sense,  were  her  daily  portion,  and 
how  she  came  through,  as  she  did,  with  nothing  worse 
than  a  few  unnoticeable  scars  to  commemorate  her 
many  disasters,  is  a  fact  known  only  to  her  pains- 
taking guardian  angel.  Tenants,  who  came  to  Ross 
on  their  various  affairs,  found  their  horses  snatched 
to  be  galloped  by  "  the  children,"  their  donkeys  pur- 
loined for  like  purposes  (or  the  donkeys'  nearest 
equivalent  to  a  gallop) — and  it  may  be  noted  that  the 
harder  the  victimised  horses  were  galloped,  the  more 
profound  was  the  admiration,  even  the  exultation,  of 
their  owners. 

"  Sure,"  said  a  southern  woman  of  some  children 
renowned  for  their  naughtiness,  "  them's  very  arch 
childhren.  But,  afther  all,  I  dunno  what's  the  use  of 
havin'  childhren  if  they're  not  arch  !  " 

In  certain  of  the  essays  in  one  of  our  books,  *'  Some 
Irish  Yesterdays,"  we  have  pooled  memories  of  our 
respective  childhoods,  which,  fortunately,  perhaps, 
for  the  peace  of  nations,  were  separated  by  some 
hundred  miles  of  moor  and  mountain,  as  well  as  by 
an  interval  of  years.  Their  conditions  were  similar 
in  many  respects,  and  specially  so  in  the  government 
of  the  nursery.  Our  mothers,  if  their  nurses  satisfied 
their  requirements,  had  a  large  indifference  to  the 


HERSELF  101 

antecedents  of  the  nurses'  underlings,  who  were 
usually  beings  of  the  type  that  is  caught  at  large  on  a 
turf-bog  and  imported  raw  into  the  ministry.  One 
such  was  once  described  to  me — "  An  innocent,  good- 
natured  slob  of  a  gerr'l  that  was  rared  in  a  bog  beside 
me.  The  sort  of  gerr'l  now  that  if  you  were  sick  would 
sit  up  all  night  to  look  afther  ye,  and  if  you  weren't, 
she'd  lie  in  bed  all  day  !  " 

I  believe  the  nurses  enjoyed  the  assimilation  of 
the  raw  product,  much  as  a  groom  likes  the  interest 
afforded  by  an  unbroken  colt,  and  they  found  the 
patronage  among  the  mothers  of  the  disciples  a 
useful  asset.  In  later  years,  Martin  was  discoursing 
of  her  nursery  life,  with  her  foster-mother,  who  had 
also  been  her  nurse,  Nurse  B.,  a  most  agreeable  person, 
gifted  with  a  saturnine  humour  that  is  not  infrequent 
in  our  countrywomen. 

"  Sure  didn't  I  ketch  Kit  Sal  one  time  "—(the 
reigning  nursemaid) — "  an'  she  bating  and  kicking 
yerself  on  the  avenue  !  "  Nurse  B.  began.  She  then 
went  on  to  describe  how  she  had  fallen  on  Kit  Sal, 
torn  her  hair,  and  "  shtuck  her  teeth  in  her." 

"  The  Misthress  seen  me  aftherwards,  and  she 
axed  me  what  was  on  me,  for  sure  I  was  cryin'  with  the 
rage.  '  Nothin'  Ma'am !  '  says  I.  But  I  told  her 
two  days  afther,  an'  she  goes  to  Kit  Sal,  an'  says  she, 

*  What  call  had  you  to  bate  Miss  Wilet  ?  '  says  she, 

*  Ye  big  shtump  !  '  '  She  wouldn't  folly  me,'  says 
Kit.  '  Well  indeed,'  says  the  Misthress,  *  I  believe 
ye  got  a  bigger  batin'  yerself  from  Nurse,  and  as  far 
as  that  goes,'  says  she,  '  I  declare  to  God,*  says  she, 
'  I  wish  she  dhrank  yer  blood  1 '  says  she.' ' 

The  tale  is  above  comment,  but  for  those  who  knew 
Mrs.  Martin's  very  special  distinction  of  manner  and 
language,  it  has  a  peculiar  appeal. 

Nurse  B.  was  small,  spare,  and  erect,  with  a  manner 


102  IRISH  MEMORIES 

that  did  not  conceal  her  contempt  for  the  world  at 
large — (with  one  cherished  exception,  "  Miss  Wilet ") 
— and  a  trenchancy  of  speech  that  was  not  infrequently 
permitted  to  express  it.  At  Ross,  at  lunch  one  day, 
during  the  later  time  when  Mrs.  Martin  had  returned 
there,  the  then  cat — (the  pampered  and  resented  draw- 
ing-room lady,  not  the  mere  kitchen  cat) — exhibited  a 
more  than  usually  inordinate  greediness,  and  Mrs. 
Martin  appealed,  with  some  reproach,  to  Nurse  B., 
who  was  at  that  time  acting — and  the  word  may  be 
taken  in  its  stage  connection— the  part  of  parlour- 
maid. 

"  Nurse  !  Does  this  poor  cat  ever  get  anything  to 
eat  ?  " 

"  It'd  be  the  quare  cat  if  it  didn't !  "  replied  Nurse, 
with  a  single  glance  at  "  Miss  Wilet  "  to  claim  the 
victor's  laurel. 

***** 

It  was  not  until  Martin  and  I  began  to  write 
"  The  Real  Charlotte  "  that  I  understood  how  wide 
and  varied  a  course  of  instruction  was  to  be  obtained 
in  a  Dublin  Sunday  school.  Judging  by  a  large 
collection  of  heavily-gilded  books,  quite  unreadable 
(and  quite  unread),  each  of  which  celebrates  proficiency 
in  some  branch  of  scriptural  learning,  Martin  took 
all  the  available  prizes.  In  addition  to  these  trophies 
and  the  knowledge  they  implied,  she  learnt  much  of 
that  middle  sphere  of  human  existence  that  has 
practically  no  normal  points  of  contact  with  any  other 
class,  either  above  or  below  it. 

It  was  a  rather  risky  experiment,  as  will,  I  think, 
be  admitted  by  anyone  who  considers  the  manners 
and  customs  of  the  detestable  little  boys  and  girls 
who  squabble  and  giggle  in  the  first  chapter  of  "  The 
Real  Charlotte."  There  are  not  many  children  who 
could  have  come  unscathed  out  of  such  a  furnace. 


HERSELF  108 

There  is  a  story  of  a  priest  who  was  such  a  good  man 
that  he  "  went  through  Purgatory  like  a  flash  of 
lightning.     There  wasn't  a  singe  on  him  !  '* 

Martin  was  adored,  revered,  was  received  as  an 
oracle  by  her  fellow  scholars,  and  was,  as  was  in- 
variable with  her,  the  wonder  and  admiration  of  her 
teacher.  She  has  told  me  how  she  took  part  in 
dreadful  revels,  school  feasts  and  the  hke,  which, 
in  their  profound  aloofness  from  her  home-life,  had 
something  almost  illicit  about  them.  With  her  in- 
tensely receptive,  perceptive  brain,  she  was  absorbing 
impressions,  points  of  view,  turns  and  twists  of 
character  wrought  on  by  circumstance ;  yet,  when 
that  phase  of  her  childhood  had  passed,  "  there 
wasn't  a  singe  on  her  I  " 

She  had  a  spiritual  reserve  and  seriousness  that 
shielded  her,  like  an  armour  of  polished  steel  that 
reflects  all,  and  is  impenetrable.  Refinement  was 
surpassingly  hers  ;  intellectual  refinement,  a  mental 
fastidiousness  that  rejected  inevitably  the  phrase 
or  sentiment  that  had  a  tinge  of  commonness ; 
personal  refinement,  in  her  dress,  in  the  exquisite 
precision  of  all  her  equipment ;  physical  refinement, 
in  the  silken  softness  of  her  hair,  the  slender  fineness 
of  her  hands  and  feet,  the  flower-bloom  of  her  skin  ; 
and  over  and  above  all,  she  had  the  refinement  of 
sentiment,  which,  when  it  is  joined  with  a  profound 
sensitiveness  and  power  of  emotion,  has  a  beauty 
and  a  perfectness  scarcely  to  be  expressed  in  words. 

She  has  told  me  stories  of  those  times,  and  of  the 
curious  contrasts  of  her  environment.  Long,  confi- 
dential walks  with  "  Francie  Fitzpatrick  "  and  her 
fellows,  followed  by  an  abrupt  descent  from  the 
position  of  "  Sir  Oracle,"  to  the  status  of  the  youngest 
of  a  number  of  sisters  and  brothers  whose  cleverness, 
smartness,  and  good  looks  filled  her  with  awe  and 


104  IRISH  MEMORIES 

glory.  She  was  intensely  critical  and  intensely  ap- 
preciative. The  little  slender  brown-eyed  girl,  who 
was  part  pet,  part  fag  of  that  brilliant,  free-going, 
family  crowd,  secretly  appraised  them  all  in  her 
balancing,  deliberative  mind,  and,  fortunately  for 
all  concerned,  passed  them  sound.  They  taught  her 
to  brush  their  hair,  and  read  her  the  poets  while 
she  was  thus  employed  ;  they  chaffed  her,  and  called 
her  The  Little  Philosopher,  and  unlike  many  elder 
sisters — (and  I  speak  as  an  elder  sister) — dragged 
her  into  things  instead  of  keeping  her  out  of  them. 
It  must  have  been  a  delightful  house,  full  of  good 
looks  and  good  company.  I  was  far  away  in  South 
Cork,  and  knew  of  the  Martins  but  distantly  and 
dimly  ;  after  my  eldest  brother  had  met  them  and 
returned  to  chant  their  charms,  I  think  that  a  certain 
faint  hostility  tinged  my  very  occasional  thoughts 
of  them,  which,  after  all,  is  not  unusual. 

The  Martins'  house  in  Dublin  was  one  of  the 
gathering  places  for  the  clans  of  the  family.  Dublin 
society  still  existed  in  those  days  ;  things  went  with 
a  swing,  and  there  was  a  tingle  in  life.  Probably 
there  was  no  place  in  the  kingdom  where  a  greater 
number  of  pleasant  people  were  to  be  met  with. 
Jovial,  unconventional,  radiant  with  good  looks, 
unfailing  in  agreeability,  they  hunted,  they  danced, 
they  got  up  theatricals  and  concerts,  they — the 
elder  ones,  at  least — went  to  church  with  an  equal 
enthusiasm,  and  fought  to  the  death  over  the  relative 
merits  of  their  pet  parsons. 

Martin  has  told  me  of  a  Homeric  and  typical  battle 
of  which  she  was  a  spectator,  between  her  mother 
and  one  of  my  many  aunts,  Florence  Coghill.  It 
began  at  tea,  at  the  house  of  another  aunt,  with  a 
suave  and  academic  discussion  of  the  Irish  Episco- 
pate,   and   narrowed   a   little   to   the   fact   that   the 


HERSELF  105 

diocese  of  Cork  needed  a  bishop.  My  aunt  Florence 
said  easily, 

"  Oh — Gregg,  of  course  !  " 

My  cousin  Nannie  (Mrs.  Martin)  replied  with  a 
sweet  reasonableness,  yet  firmly,  "  I  think  you  will 
find  that  Pakenham  Walsh  is  the  man." 

The  battle  then  was  joined.  From  argument  it 
passed  on  into  shouting,  and  thence  neared  fisticuffs. 
They  advanced  towards  each  other  in  large  armchairs, 
even  as,  in  these  later  days,  the  "  Tanks "  move 
into  action.  They  beat  each  other's  knees,  each 
lady  crying  the  name  of  her  champion,  and  then  my 
aunt  remembered  that  she  had  a  train  to  catch,  and 
rushed  from  the  room.  The  air  was  still  trembling 
with  her  departure,  when  the  door  was  part  opened, 
the  monosyllable  "  Gregg  !  "  was  projected  through 
the  aperture,  and  before  reply  was  possible,  the 
slam  of  the  hall  door  was  heard. 

Mrs.  Martin  flung  herself  upon  the  window,  and 
was  in  time  to  scream  "  Paknamwalsh !  "  in  one 
tense  syllable,  to  my  aunt's  departing  long,  thin 
back. 

My  aunt  Florence  was  too  gallant  a  foe  to  affect, 
as  at  the  distance  she  might  well  have  done,  uncon- 
sciousness. Anyone  who  knows  the  deaf  and  dumb 
alphabet  will  realise  what  conquering  gestures  were 
hers,   as  turning  to  face  the  enemy  she  responded, 

"  G  !  R  !  E  !  G  !  G  !  " 

and  with  the  last  triumphant  thump  of  her  clenched 
fists,  fled  round  the  corner. 

And  she  was  right.  "  Gregg  &  son.  Bishops  to 
the  Church  of  Ireland,"  have  passed  into  ecclesiastical 
history. 


CHAPTER  IX 

MYSELF,    WHEN   YOUNG 

I  HAVE  deeply  considered  the  question  as  to  how 
far  and  how  deep  I  should  go  in  the  matter  of  my 
experiences  as  an  Art  student.  Those  brief  but 
intense  visits  to  Paris  come  back  to  me  as  almost 
the  best  times  that  life  has  given  me.  To  be  young, 
and  very  ardent,  and  to  achieve  what  you  have  most 
desired,  and  to  find  that  it  brings  full  measure  and 
running  over — all  those  privileges  were  mine.  I  may 
have  taken  my  hand  from  the  plough,  and  tried  to 
"  cultiver  mon  jardin  "  in  other  of  the  fields  of  Para- 
dise, but  if  I  did  indeed  loose  my  hand  from  its 
first  grasp,  it  was  to  place  it  in  another,  in  the  hand 
of  the  best  comrade,  and  the  gayest  playboy,  and 
the  faithfullest  friend,  that  ever  came  to  turn  labour 
to  pastime,  and  life  into  a  song. 

I  believe  that  those  who  have  been  Art  students 
themselves  will  sympathise  with  my  recollections, 
and  I  trust  that  those  who  were  not  will  tolerate 
them.  If  neither  of  these  expectations  is  fulfilled, 
this  chapter  can  be  lightly  skipped.  The  damage 
done  on  either  side  will  be  inconsiderable. 

Drawing  and  riding  seem  to  me  to  go  farther  back 
into  my  consciousness  than  any  other  of  the  facts 
of  life.  I  cannot  remember  a  time  when  I  had  not 
a  pony  and  a  pencil.  I  adored  both  about  equally, 
and  if  I  cannot,  even  now,  draw  a  horse  as  I  should 


MYSELF,   WHEN   YOUNG  107 

wish  to  do  it — a  fact  of  which  I  am  but  too  well 
aware — it  is  not  for  want  of  beginning  early  and 
trying  often. 

My  education  in  Art  has  been  somewhat  spasmodic. 
I  think  I  was  about  seventeen  when  a  dazzling  invita- 
tion came  for  me  from  a  very  much  loved  aunt  who 
was  also  my  godmother,  to  stay  with  her  in  London 
and  to  work  for  a  term  at  the  South  Kensington 
School  of  Art.  There  followed  three  months  of  a 
most  useful  breaking-in  for  a  rather  headstrong  and 
unbroken  colt.  I  do  not  know  what  the  present 
curriculum  of  South  Kensington  may  be  ;  I  know 
what  it  was  then.  From  a  lawless  life  of  caricaturing 
my  brethren,  my  governesses,  my  clergy,  my  elders 
and  betters  generally,  copying  in  pen  and  ink  all 
the  hunting  pictures,  from  John  Leech  to  Georgina 
Bowers,  that  old  and  new  "  Punches  "  had  to  offer, 
and  painting  such  landscapes  in  water  colours  as 
would  have  induced  the  outraged  earth  to  open  its 
mouth  and  swallow  up  me  and  all  my  house,  had 
it  but  seen  them,  I  passed  to  a  rule  of  iron  discipline. 

1.  Decoration,  scrolls  and  ornament  in  all  moods 
and  tenses. 

2.  The  meticulous  study  in  outline  of  casts  of 
detached  portions  of  the  human  frame,  noses,  ears, 
hands,  feet ;  and 

3.  The  most  heart-breaking  and  time-wasting  stip- 
pling of  the  same. 

I  well  remember  how,  on  a  day  that  I  was  toiling 
at  a  large  and  knubbly  foot,  a  full-rigged  Mamma 
came  sailing  round  the  class,  with  a  daughter  in  tow. 
The  other  students  were  occupied  with  scrolls  and 
apples  and  the  like.  The  Mamma  shed  gracious 
sanction  as  she  passed.  Then  came  my  turn.  I 
was  aware  of  a  pause,  a  shock  of  disapproval,  and 
then  the  words, 


108  IRISH  MEMORIES 

"  A  naked  foot,  my  dear  !  " 

There  was  a  tug  on  the  tow-rope  and  the  daughter 
was  removed. 

I  imagine  it  must  have  been  near  the  end  of  my 
three  months  that  my  detested  efforts  were  made 
into  a  bundle  and  sent  up  to  high  places  with  a  scribble 
on  the  margin  of  one  of  them,  "  May  Miss  Somerville 
pass  for  the  Antique  ?   E.  Miller." 

In  due  course  the  bundle  was  returned.  Mr. 
Sparkes,  a  majestic  and  terrible  being,  wrapped  in 
remoteness  and  in  a  great  and  waving  red  beard, 
as  in  a  mantle  of  flame,  had  placed  his  sign  of  ac- 
quiescence after  the  inquiry.  Miss  Somerville  was 
given  to  understand  that  she  was  permitted  to  Pass 
for  the  Antique. 

This,  however.  Miss  Somerville  did  not  do.  She 
was  (not  without  deep  regret  for  all  of  her  London 
sojourn  that  did  not  include  the  School  of  Art) 
permitted  instead  to  pass  the  portals  of  Paddington 
Station,  and  to  return  to  Ireland  by  "  The  Bristol 
Boat,*'  in  other  words,  an  instrument  of  the  devil, 
much  in  vogue  at  that  time  among  the  Irish  of  the 
South,  that  took  some  thirty  hours  to  paddle  across 
the  Channel,  and  was  known  to  the  wits  of  Cork  as 
"  The  Steam  Roller."  It  was,  I  fancy,  on  board  the 
Steam  Roller  that  a  cousin  of  mine,  when  still  deep 
in  hard-earned  slumber,  and  still  far  outside  "  The 
Heads "  {i.e.  the  entrance  of  Cork  Harbour),  was 
assaulted  by  the  steward. 

"  Come,  get  up,  get  up  !  "  said  the  steward,  shaking 
him  by  the  shoulder,  with  the  licence  of  old  acquaint- 
ance and  authority. 

My  cousin  replied  with  a  recommendation  to  the 
steward  to  betake  himself  to  a  rival  place  of  torment, 
where  (he  added)  there  was  little  the  steward  could 
learn,  and  much  that  he  could  teach. 


MYSELF,   WHEN   YOUNG  109 

"  Well,"  replied  the  steward,  dispassionately,  "  ye're 
partly  right.     Ye  have  an  hour  yet." 

Thus  I  found  myself  back  in  Carbery  again,  left 
once  more  to  follow  my  own  buccaneering  fancy  in 
the  domain  of  Art,  a  little  straightened  and  corrected, 
perhaps,  in  eye,  and  with  ideas  on  matters  aesthetic 
beneficially  widened.  But  this  was  due  mainly  to 
one  who  has  ever  been  my  patron  saint  in  Art,  that 
cousin  who  preferred  reverie  to  Shakespeare  ;  partly, 
also,  to  peripatetic  lunches  among  the  pictures  and 
marvels  of  the  South  Kensington  Museum ;  not,  I 
say  firmly,  to  that  heavy-earned  Pass  for  the  Antique. 

My  next  term  of  serious  apprenticeship  did  not 
occur  for  four  or  five  years,  and  was  spent  in  Diissel- 
dorf.  One  of  my  cousins  (now  my  brother-in-law), 
Egerton  Coghill,  was  studying  painting  there,  and 
advised  my  doing  the  same.  It  was  there,  therefore, 
that  I  made  my  first  dash  into  drawing  from  life, 
under  the  guidance  of  M.  Gabriel  Nicolet,  then  himself 
a  student,  now  a  well-known  and  successful  portrait- 
painter.  In  the  following  spring  I  was  there  again, 
for  singing  lessons  as  well  as  for  painting.  This 
time  I  had  Herr  Carl  Sohn  for  my  professor,  a  delight- 
ful painter,  who  helped  me  much,  but  on  the  whole  I 
think  that  I  learnt  more  of  music  than  of  anything 
else  while  I  was  in  Diisseldorf,  and  had  I  learnt 
nothing  of  either,  I  can  at  least  look  back  to  the 
concerts  at  the  Ton  Halle,  and  praise  Heaven  for 
the  remembrance  of  their  super-excellence.  Twice 
a  week  came  the  concerts  ;  it  was  very  much  the 
thing  to  go  to  them,  and  I  have  not  often  enjoyed 
music  more  than  I  have  at  those  Ton  Halle  nights, 
sitting  with  the  good  friends  whom  Providence  had 
considerately  sent  to  Diisseldorf  to  be  kind  to  me, 
in  an  atmosphere  of  rank  German  tobacco,  listening 
to  the  best  of  orchestras,  and  enjoying  every  note 


110  IRISH  MEMORIES 

they  played,  while  I  covered  my  programme  with 
caricatures  (as,  also,  was  very  much  the  thing  to 
do). 

My  friends  and  I  joined  one  of  the  big  Gesang 
Vereins,  and  a  very  good  two  months  ended  in  three 
ecstatic  days  of  singing  alto  in  the  Rheinische  Musik 
Fest,  which,  by  great  good  luck,  took  place  that  May 
in  Diisseldorf. 

The  Abbe  Liszt  was  one  of  the  glories  of  the 
occasion.  I  saw  him  roving  through  the  gardens  of 
the  Ton  Halle,  with  an  ignored  train  of  admirers 
at  his  heels ;  an  old  lion,  with  a  silver  mane,  and  a 
dark,  untamed  eye. 

I  do  not  regret  those  two  springs  in  Dusseldorf, 
but  still  less  do  I  regret  the  change  of  counsels  that 
resulted  in  my  going  to  Paris  in  the  following  year. 
"  When  the  true  gods  come,  the  half-gods  go,"  and, 
apart  from  other  considerations,  the  Dusseldorf  School 
of  Art  only  admitted  male  students,  and  ignored, 
with  true  German  chivalry,  the  other  half  of  creation. 

Of  old,  we  are  told,  Freedom  sat  on  the  heights, 
well  above  the  snow  line,  no  doubt,  and,  even  in 
1884,  she  was  disposed  to  turn  a  freezing  eye  and  a 
cold  shoulder  on  any  young  woman  who  had  the 
temerity  to  climb  in  her  direction.  My  cousin,  who 
had  been  painting  in  Dusseldorf,  had  moved  on  to 
Paris,  and  his  reports  of  the  studios  there,  as  compared 
with  the  possibilities  of  work  in  Diisseldorf,  settled 
the  question  for  me.  But  the  point  was  not  carried 
without  friction. 

"  Paris  !  " 

They  all  said  this  at  the  tops  of  their  voices.  It 
does  not  specially  matter  now  who  they  were  ;  there 
are  always  people  to  say  this  kind  of  thing. 

They  said  that  Paris  was  the  Scarlet  Woman 
embodied  ;  they  also  said. 


MYSELF,    WHEN   YOUNG  111 

"  The  IDEA  of  letting  a  girl  go  to  Paris  !  " 

This  they  said  incessantly  in  capital  letters,  and 
in  "  capital  letters  "  (they  were  renowned  for  writing 
"  capital  letters  "),  and  my  mother  was  frightened. 

So  a  compromise  was  effected,  and  I  went  to  Paris 
with  a  bodyguard,  consisting  of  my  mother,  my  eldest 
brother,  a  female  cousin,  and  with  us  another  girl, 
the  friend  with  whom  I  had  worked  in  Dusseldorf. 
We  went  to  a  pension  in  the  Avenue  de  Villiers,  which, 
I  should  imagine  and  hope,  exists  no  more. 

As  I  think  of  its  gloomy  and  hideous  salons,  its 
atmosphere  of  garlic  and  bad  cigars,  its  system  of 
ventilation,  which  consisted  of  heated  draughts  that 
travelled  from  one  stifling  room  to  another,  seeking 
an  open  window  and  finding  none  ;  when  I  remember 
the  thread-like  passages,  dark  as  in  a  coal  mine,  the 
clusters  of  tiny  bedrooms,  as  thick  as  cells  in  a  wasp's 
nest ;  the  endless  yet  inadequate  meals,  I  recognise, 
with  long  overdue  gratitude,  the  devotion  of  the 
bodyguard.  For  me  and  my  fellow-student  nothing 
of  this  signified.  For  us  was  the  larger  air,  the 
engrossing  toil  of  the  studio.  It  absorbed  us  from 
8  a.m.  till  5  p.m.  But  the  wheels  of  the  bodyguard 
drave  heavily,  and  they  had  a  poor  time  of  it. 

So  poor  indeed  was  it,  that,  after  three  weeks  of 
conscientious  sight-seeing  and  no  afternoon  tea  ("  Le 
Fife  o'clock "  not  having  then  reached  the  shores 
of  France),  my  mother  decided  it  were  better  to 
leave  me  alone,  sitting  upon  the  very  knee  of  the 
Scarlet  Woman,  than  to  endure  the  Avenue  de  Vil- 
liers any  longer,  and  to  fly  back  to  what  she  was 
wont  to  describe  to  her  offspring,  if  restive,  as  "  your- 
own-good-home-and-what-more-do-you-want."  (In 
this  connection,  I  remember  an  argument  I  once  had 
with  her,  in  which,  being  young  and  merely  theoreti- 
cally affaired  with  the  matter,   I  furiously  asserted 


112  IRISH  MEMORIES 

my  preference,  even — as  the  fight  warmed — my  adora- 
tion, for  the  practice  of  cremation,  and  my  unalterable 
resolve  to  be  thus  disposed  of.  My  mother,  who 
would  rise  to  any  argument,  no  less  furiously  combated 
the  suggestion,  and  finally  clinched  the  matter  by 
saying,  "  Cremation !  Nonsense  1  I  can  tell  you, 
my  fine  friend,  you  shall  just  be  popped  into  your 
own  good  family  vault  1  ") 

With  the  departure  of  my  people.  May  Goodhall 
and  I  also  shook  off  as  much  of  the  dust  of  the  Avenue 
de  Villiers  as  was  possible,  and  moved  to  another 
pension^  nearly  vis-a-vis  the  Studio.  This  latter 
was  an  offshoot  of  the  well-known  Atelier  Colarossi. 
It  had  been  started  in  the  Rue  Washington  (Avenue 
des  Champs  Elysees)  in  order  to  secure  English  and 
American  clients,  as  well  as  those  French  jeunes  fllles 
bien  elevees  to  whose  parents  the  studios  of  the  Quartier 
Latin  did  not  commend  themselves.  Its  tone  was 
distinctly  amateur ;  we  were  all  "  tres  bien  elevSes  " 
and  "  tres  gentilles,^'  and  in  recognition  of  this,  a  sort 
of  professional  chaperon  had  been  provided,  a  small, 
cross  female,  who  made  up  the  fire,  posed  the  models, 
and  fought  with  les  Sieves  over  the  poses,  and  hatred 
for  whom  created  a  bond  of  union  among  all  who  came 
within   her    orbit.     One    of   the    French    girls,    Mile. 

La  C ,  fair,  smart,    good-looking,  bestowed  upon 

me  some  degree  of  favour.  The  class  was  wont  to  do 
a  weekly  composition  for  correction  by  M.  Dagnan- 
Bouveret,  who  was  one  of  the  professors  ;  the  subjects 

he  selected  were  usually  Scriptural,  and  Mile.  La  C 

was  accustomed  to  appeal  to  me  for  information.  She 
was,  I  remember,  quite  at  sea  about  La  fille  de  Jephtiy 
and  explained  that  the  Bible  was  a  book  not  convenable 
pour  les  jeunes  filles,  whereas  the  Lives  of  the  Saints 
were  most  interesting,  and  full  of  a  thousand  delicious 
little  horrors.     Without  approaching  Martin's  Sunday 


MYSELF,    WHEN    YOUNG  118 

School  erudition,  I  presently  found  myself  established 
as  the  exponent  of  the  composition.  I  recollect  one 
week,  when  the  subject  was  "  The  Maries  at  the 
Sepulchre,"  an  obsequious  German  came  to  inquire 
"  if  eet  was  in  ze  morning  zat  ze  holy  Laties  did  co 
to  ze  tomb  ?  Or  did  zose  Laties,  perhaps,  co  in  ze 
efening  ?  " 

Mile,  la  C 's  home  chanced  to  be  the  house  next 

but  one  to  the  Studio,  and  the  Rue  Washington  was 
a  street  of  a  decorum  appropriate  to  its  name.  None 
the  less,  a  bonne  came  daily  at  12  o'clock  to  escort 
her  home  for  dejeuner.  There  came  a  day  when  the 
bonne  failed  of  her  mission,  and  on  my  return  at  one 
o'clock,  I  found  my  young  friend  (who  was  as  old  as 
she  would  ever,  probably,  admit  to  being)  faint  with 
hunger,  and  very  angry,  but  too  much  afraid  of  the 
wrath  of  her  family  to  return  alone. 

One  wonders  whether,  even  in  provincial  France, 
Freedom  still  denies  herself  to  this  extent. 

In  the  following  spring  I  went  again  to  Paris,  and 
this  time,  my  friend  May  Goodhall  being  unfortu- 
nately unable  to  come  with  me,  a  very  delightful 
American,  and  her  friend,  German  by  up-bringing, 
but  of  old  French  noble  descent,  allowed  me  to  join 
their    menage.      Its    duties    were    divided    according 

to    our    capacities.     Marion    A was  housekeeper, 

"  Ponce,"  by  virtue  of  her  German  training,  was  cook, 
and  to  me  was  allotted  the  humble  role  of  scullion. 
We  had  rooms  in  a  tall  and  filthy  old  house  in  the  Rue 
Madame,  one  of  those  sinister  and  dark  and  narrow 
streets  that  one  finds  in  the  Rive  Gauche,  that  seem 
as  if  they  must  harbour  all  variety  of  horrors,  known 
and  unknown,  and  are  composed  of  houses  whose 
incredible  discomforts  would  break  the  spirit  of  any 
creature  less  inveterate  in  optimism  than  an  Art 
student.     For  Marion  and  Ponce  and  I  had  decided 


114  IRISH  MEMORIES 

to  abandon  the  Rue  Washington,  and  to  go  to  what 
was  known  there  as  "  le  Colarossi  la-has,""  the  real, 
serious,  professional  studio  (as  opposed  to  its  refined 
astral  body,  ''' pres  VEtoiW''),  and  we  now  felt  our- 
selves Art  students  indeed. 

I  don't  know  how  young  women  manage  now,  but 
in  those  days  I  and  my  fellows  were  usually  given — 
like  the  Prodigal  Son — a  portion,  a  sum  of  money, 
which  was  to  last  for  as  long  or  as  short  a  time  as  we 
pleased,  but  we  knew  that  when  it  ended  there  would 
be  no  husks  to  fall  back  upon ;  nothing  but  one  long 
note  on  the  horn,  "  Home  !  ",  and  home  we  should 
have  to  go.  (I  once  ran  it  to  so  fine  a  point  that  I 
could  buy  no  food  between  Paris  and  London,  and 
when  I  arrived  at  my  uncle's  house  in  London,  it 
was  my  long-suffering  uncle  who  paid  the  cabman.) 

Therefore,  for  the  keen  ones,  the  most  stringent 
and  profound  economies  were  the  rule.  Never  did  I 
reveal  to  my  father  and  mother  more  than  the  most 
carefully  selected  details  of  that  house  in  the  Rue 
Madame.  I  paid  seven  francs  per  week  for  my 
bedroom  and  service,  and  though  this  may  not 
seem  excessive,  I  am  inclined  now  to  think  that  the 
accommodation  was  dear  at  the  money.  My  room, 
au  cinquieme,  had  a  tiled  floor,  but  this  was  of  less 
consequence,  as  its  size  permitted  of  most  of  the 
affairs  of  life  being  conducted  from  a  central  and 
stationary  position  on  the  bed.  Thence,  I  could  shut 
the  door,  poke  the  fire,  cook  my  breakfast,  and  open 
the  window,  a  conventional  rite,  quite  disconnected 
with  the  question  of  fresh  air.  The  outlook  was  into 
a  central  shaft,  full  of  darkness  and  windows,  remark- 
able for  the  variety  and  pungency  of  its  atmosphere, 
and  for  the  fact  that  at  no  hour  of  the  day  or  night  did 
it  cease  to  reverberate  with  the  thunderous  gabble  of 
pianos,   the  acrid  screeches   of  the  violin — (to  which 


MYSELF,    WHEN    YOUNG  115 

latter  I  contributed  a  not  unworthy  share) — and, 
worst  of  all,  the  Solfeggi  of  the  embryo  vocalist. 

The  service  (comprised,  it  may  be  remembered, 
in  the  daily  franc)  consisted  in  the  occasional  offices 
of  a  male  housemaid,  whose  professional  visits  could 
only  be  traced  by  the  diminution  of  our  hoarded 
supplies  of  English  cigarettes.  Yet  he  was  not  all 
evil.  He  reminded  me  of  my  own  people  at  home  in 
his  readiness  to  perform  any  task  that  was  not  part 
of  his  duties,  and  a  small  coin  would  generally  evoke 

hot  water.     Marion  A ,  who  had  retained,  even  in 

the  Rue  Madame,  a  domestic  standard  to  which  I 
never  aspired,  would,  at  intervals,  offer  Leon  her 
opinion  of  him  and  his  methods.  The  housemaid, 
with  one  of  Ponce's  cigarettes  in  the  corner  of  his 
mouth,  and  one  of  mine  behind  his  ear,  would  accept 
it  in  the  best  spirit  possible,  and  once  went  so  far  as 
to  assure  her,  with  a  charming  smile,  that  he  had  now 
been  so  much  and  so  very  often  scolded  that  he  really 
did  not  mind  it  in  the  least. 

Colarossi,  the  proprietor  of  the  studios,  was  a  wily 
and  good-natured  old  Italian,  who  had  been  a  model, 
and  having  saved  money,  had  somehow  acquired  a 
nest  of  tumble-down  studios  in  the  Rue  de  la  Grande 
Chaumiere.  He  then  bribed,  with  the  promise  of 
brilliant  pupils,  some  rising  artists  to  act  as  his 
"  Professeurs,"  and  secured,  with  the  promise  of 
brilliant  professors,  a  satisfactory  crowd  of  rising 
pupils,  and  by  various  arts  he  had  succeeded  in  keeping 
both  promises  sufficiently  to  make  his  venture  a  suc- 
cess. The  studio  in  which  I  worked  was  at  the  top  of 
the  building,  and  was  reached  by  a  very  precarious, 
external  wooden  staircase  ;  the  men-students  were 
on  the  ground-floor  beneath  us.  "  Le  Colarossi  la- 
has  "  was  indisputably  serious.  The  models  were 
well  managed,  as  might  be  expected,  when  no  trick 

I  2 


116  IRISH  MEMORIES 

of  the  trade  could  hope  to  pass  undetected  by  "  Le 
Patron  "  ;    the  students  were  there  to  work,  and  to 
do  good  work  at  that,  and  the  women*s  and  men's 
studios  were  all  crowded  with  "  les  sirieux"    Raphael 
Collin,  gloomy,  pale,  pock-marked,  and  clever,  and 
Gustave    Courtois — "  Le    beau    Gustave  '* — tall     and 
swaggering,  with  a  forked  red  beard,  and  a  furious 
moustache   like    two  emphatic  accents   (both  grave 
and   acute),    were  our  professors.     They  were    both 
first-rate    men,    and     were    respected    as    much    as 
they    were    feared.     They    went   their    rounds    with 
— as  it  were — scythe  blades  on  their  chariot  wheels, 
and  flaming  swords  in  their  hands.     It  was  nerve- 
shaking  to  hear  the  cheerful  and  incessant  noises  of 
"  les  hommes  en  has  '*  cease  in  an  instant,  as  though 
they  had  all  been  turned  to  stone,  and  to  know  that 
the  Terror  that  walked  in  the  noonday  was  upon  them. 
Extraordinary  how  that  silence,  and  that  awful  time 
of  waiting  for  the  step  on  our  stair,  opened  the  eyes  ; 
everything  was  wrong,  and  it  was  now  too  late  to 
make   it   right.     And   then,   the   professor's   tour   of 
slaughter  over,  and  the  study,  that  was  ^^  pas   assez 
Men  construit"  looking  with  its    savage   corrections, 
as  if  someone  had  been  striking  matches  on  it,  how 
feebly  one  tottered  to  the  old  concierge  for  the  three 
sous'   worth   of  black  coffee   that  was   to  pull   one 
together,  and  enable  the  same  office  to  be  performed 
for  the  humiliated  drawing.     It  may,   however,  be 
remembered   to    '^  le   beau   Gustave "   that   one   eleve 
was  spared  from  the  fire  and  sword  to  which  he  was 
wont  to  put  the  Studio.     This  was  a  small  and  ancient 
widow  who  arrived  one  Monday  morning,  announcing 
that  she  was  eighty-two,  but  none  the  less  had  decided 
to  become  an  artist.     It  was  soon  pathetically  obvious 
that  she  would  require  a  further  eighty-two  years,  at 
least,   to   carry   out   her   intention.     Courtois   came. 


MYSELF,   WHEN   YOUNG  117 

regarded  with  stupefaction  the  sheet  of  brown  paper 
on  which  she  had  described,  in  pink  chalk,  hiero- 
glyphs whose  purport  were  known  only  to  herself, 
faltered  "  Continuez,  Madame,^^  and  hurried  on.  De- 
spite this  encouragement,  the  old  lady  apparently 
abandoned  her  high  resolve,  for  on  Saturday  she 
departed,  and  the  Studio  knew  her  no  more. 

When  I  think  of  Colarossi's,  I  can  now  recall  only 
foreigners ;  many  Germans,  a  Czech,  who  sang, 
beautifully,  enchanting  Volksliede  of  the  Balkans, 
and  whose  accompaniments  I  used  to  play  on  a  piano 
that  properly  required  two  performers,  one  to  sit  on 
the  music  stool  and  put  the  notes  down,  the  other  to 
sit  on  the  floor  and  push  them  up  again ;  they  all 
stuck.  There  were  Swiss,  and  Russians,  and  Fin- 
landaises  ;  there  was  a  Hungarian  Jewess,  a  disgusting 
being,  almost  brutish  in  her  manners  and  customs, 
yet  briUiant  in  her  work ;  an  oily  little  Marseillaise, 
Parthians  and  Medes  and  Elamites,  dwellers  in 
Mesopotamia  (with  a  stress  upon  the  first  syllable), 
unclean,  uncivilised,  determined,  with  but  one  object 
in  life,  to  extract  the  last  sou  of  value  from  their 
abonnements  (and,  incidentally,  also  to  extract  from 
any  unguarded  receptacle  such  colours,  charcoal, 
punaises,  etc.,  as  they  were  in  need  of,  uninfluenced 
by  any  consideration  save  that  of  detection.) 

The  standard  of  accomplishment  was  very  high. 
The  Marseillaise,  who  looked  like  a  rag-picker,  did 
extraordinarily  good  work;  so,  as  I  have  said,  did 
the  Jewess,  whose  appearance  suggested  an  itinerant 
barrow  and  fried  potatoes.  (Delicious  French  fried 
potatoes  1  I  used  to  buy  five  sous'  worth  off  a  brazier 
at  the  corner  of  the  Place  S.  Sulpice,  and  carry  them 
back  to  the  mSnage  wrapped  in  a  piece  of  La 
PatriCy  until  Ponce,  who  adored  animals,  was  told 
very   officiously  that  they  were   fried   in  the  fat  of 


118  IRISH  MEMORIES 

lost  dogs,  and  forbade  further  dealings  with  the 
murderer.) 

Colarossi's  never  took  "  a  day  off."  Weekdays, 
Sundays,  and  holy  days,  the  studios  were  open,  and 
there  were  Sieves  at  work.  Impossible  to  imagine 
what  has  become  of  them,  all  those  strange,  half- 
sophisticated  savages,  diligently  polishing  their  single 
weapon,  to  which  all  else  had  been  sacrificed. 

Yet  when  I  look  back  to  the  Studio,  to  its  profound 
engrossment  in  its  intention,  its  single-hearted  sacri- 
fice of  everything  in  life  to  the  one  Vision,  its  gorgeous 
contempt  for  appearances  and  conventions,  I  find 
myself  thinking  how  good  it  would  be  to  be  five  and 
twenty,  and  storming  up  that  rickety  staircase  again, 
with  a  paint-box  in  one  hand,  and  a  Carton  as  big  as 
the  Gates  of  Gaza  in  the  other. 


DANS    LA    RIVE    GAUCHE. 


CHAPTER  X 

WHEN    FIRST    SHE    CAME 

"  Sure  ye're  always  laughing  !  That  ye  may  laugh 
in  the  sight  of  the  Glory  of  Heaven  !  " 

This  benediction  was  bestowed  upon  Martin  by  a 
beggar-woman  in  Skibbereen,  and  I  hope,  and  believe, 
it  has  been  fulfilled.  Wherever  she  was,  if  a  thing 
amused  her  she  had  to  laugh.  I  can  see  her  in  such 
a  case,  the  unpredictable  thing  that  was  to  touch  the 
spot,  said  or  done,  with  streaming  tears,  helpless, 
almost  agonised,  much  as  one  has  seen  a  child  writhe 
in  the  tortured  ecstasy  of  being  tickled.  The  large 
conventional  jest  had  but  small  power  over  her ;  it 
was  the  trivial,  subtle  absurdity,  the  inversion  of  the 
expected,  the  sublimity  getting  a  little  above  itself 
and  failing  to  realise  that  it  had  taken  that  fatal 
step  over  the  border ;  these  were  the  things  that 
felled  her,  and  laid  her,  wherever  she  might  be,  in 
ruins. 

In  Richmond  Parish  Church,  on  a  summer  Sunday, 
it  happened  to  her  and  a  friend  to  be  obliged  to  stand 
in  the  aisle,  awaiting  the  patronage  of  the  pew- 
opener.  The  aisle  was  thronged,  and  Martin  was  tired. 
She  essayed  to  lean  against  the  end  of  a  fully  occupied 
pew,  and  not  only  fully  occupied,  but  occupied  by  a 
row  of  such  devout  and  splendid  ladies  as  are  only 
seen   in   perfection   in   smart   suburban   churches.    1 


120  IRISH  MEMORIES 

have  said  the  aisle  was  thronged,  and,  as  she  leaned, 
the  pressure  increased.  Too  late  she  knew  that  she 
had  miscalculated  her  mark.  Like  Sisera,  the  son  of 
Jabin,  she  bowed  (only  she  bowed  backwards),  she 
fell ;  where  she  fell,  there  she  lay  down,  and  where 
she  lay  down  was  along  the  laps  of  those  devout  and 
splendid  ladies.  These  gazed  down  into  her  con- 
vulsed countenance  with  eyes  that  could  not  have 
expressed  greater  horror  or  surprise  if  she  had  been  a 
boa  constrictor ;  a  smileless  glare,  terribly  enhanced 
by  gold-rimmed  pince-nez.  She  thinks  she  must 
have  extended  over  fully  four  of  them.  She  never 
knew  how  she  regained  the  aisle.  She  was  herself 
quite  powerless,  and  she  thinks  that  with  knee  action, 
similar  to  that  of  a  knife-grinder,  they  must  have 
banged  her  on  to  her  feet.  It  was  enough  for  her  to 
be  beyond  the  power  of  those  horrified  and  indignant 
and  gold  eye-glassed  eyes,  even  though  she  knew  that 
nothing  could  deliver  her  from  the  grip  of  the  demon 
of  laughter.  She  says  she  was  given  a  seat,  out  of 
pity,  I  suppose,  shortly  afterwards,  and  there,  on 
her  knees  and  hidden  under  the  brim  of  her  hat,  she 
wept,  and  uttered  those  faint  insect  squeaks  that 
indicate  the  extremity  of  endurance,  until  the  end  of 
the  service,  when  her  unfortunate  companion  led  her 
home. 

It  was,  as  it  happens,  in  church  that  I  saw  her  first ; 
in  our  own  church,  in  Castle  Townshend.  That  was 
on  Sunday,  January  17,  1886.  I  immediately  com- 
mandeered her  to  sing  in  the  choir,  and  from  that  day, 
little  as  she  then  knew  it,  she  was  fated  to  become  one 
of  its  fundamental  props  and  stays.  A  position  than 
which  few  are  more  arduous  and  none  more  thank- 
less. 

I  suppose  some  suggestion  of  what  she  looked  like 
should   here   be   given.     The  photograph  that  forms 


WHEN  FIRST  SHE  CAME  121 

the  frontispiece  of  this  book  was  of  this  period,  and 
it  gives  as  good  a  suggestion  of  her  as  can  be  hoped 
for  from  a  photograph.  She  was  of  what  was  then 
considered  "  medium  height,"  5  ft.  5j  in.  Since  then 
the  standard  has  gone  up,  but  in  1886  Martin  was 
accustomed  to  assert  that  small  men  considered  her 
"  a  monstrous  fine  woman,"  and  big  men  said  she  was 
"  a  dear  little  thing."  I  find  myself  incapable  of 
appraising  her.  Many  drawings  I  have  made  of  her, 
and,  that  spring  of  1886,  before  I  went  to  Paris,  I 
attempted  also  a  small  sketch  in  oils,  with  a  hope, 
that  was  futile,  that  colour  might  succeed  where  black 
and  white  had  failed.  I  can  only  offer  an  inadequate 
catalogue. 

Eyes  :  large,  soft,  and  brown,  with  the  charm  of 
expression  that  is  often  one  of  the  compensations 
of  short  sight.  Hair :  bright  brown  and  waving, 
liable  to  come  down  out  riding,  and  on  one  such  occa- 
sion described  by  an  impressionable  old  General  as 
"  a  chestnut  wealth,"  a  stigma  that  she  was  never 
able  to  live  down.  A  colour  like  a  wild  rose — a  simile 
that  should  be  revered  on  account  of  its  long  service 
to  mankind,  and  must  be  forgiven  since  none  other 
meets  the  case — and  a  figure  of  the  lightest  and 
slightest,  on  which  had  been  bestowed  the  great  and 
capricious  boon  of  smartness,  which  is  a  thing 
apart,  and  does  not  rely  upon  merely  anatomical 
considerations. 

"By  Jove, Miss  Martin,"  said  an  ancient  dressmaker, 
of  the  order  generically  known  as  "  little  women," 
"  By  Jove,  Miss,  you  have  a  very  genteel  back  !  " 
And  the  compliment  could  not  have  been  better  put, 
though  I  think,  from  a  literary  standpoint,  it  was 
excelled  by  a  commendation  pronounced  by  a  "  little 
tailor  "  on  a  coat  of  his  own  construction.  "  Now,  Mr. 
Sullivan,"  said  his  client  anxiously,  twining  her  neck. 


122  IRISH  MEMORIES 

giraffe-like,  in  a  vain  endeavour,  to  view  the  small 
of  her  own  back,  "  is  the  back  right  ?  " 

"Mrs.Cair'rns,"  replied  Mr.  Sullivan  with  solemnity, 
"  humanity  could  do  no  more." 

Martin's  figure,  good  anywhere,  looked  its  best 
in  the  saddle ;  she  had  the  effect  of  having  poised 
there  without  effort,  as  a  bird  poises  on  a  spray ; 
she  looked  even  more  of  a  feather-weight  than  she 
was,  yet  no  horse  that  I  have  ever  known,  could,  with 
his  most  malign  capers,  discompose  the  airy  security 
of  her  seat,  still  less  shake  her  nerve.  Before  I  knew 
how  extravagantly  short-sighted  she  was,  I  did  not 
appreciate  the  pluck  that  permitted  her  to  accept 
any  sort  of  a  mount,  and  to  face  any  sort  of  a  fence, 
blindfold,  and  that  inspired  her  out  hunting  to  charge 
what  came  in  her  way,  with  no  more  knowledge  of 
what  was  to  happen  than  Marcus  Curtius  had  when 
he  leaped  into  the  gulf. 

It  is  trite,  not  to  say  stupid,  to  expatiate  upon  that 
January  Sunday  when  I  first  met  her ;  yet  it  has 
proved  the  hinge  of  my  life,  the  place  where  my  fate, 
and  hers,  turned  over,  and  new  and  unforeseen  things 
began  to  happen  to  us.  They  did  not  happen  at 
once.  An  idler,  more  good-for-nothing  pack  of  "  blag- 
yards  "  than  we  all  were  could  not  easily  be  found. 
I,  alone,  kept  up  a  pretence  of  occupation ;  I  was 
making  drawings  for  the  Graphic  in  those  days,  and 
was  in  the  habit  of  impounding  my  young  friends  as 
models.  My  then  studio— better  known  as  "  the  Pur- 
lieu," because  my  mother,  inveighing  against  its 
extreme  disorder,  had  compared  it  to  "  the  revolting 
purlieus  of  some  disgusting  town  " — (I  have  said  she 
did  not  spare  emphasis) — was  a  meeting  place  for 
the  unemployed,  I  may  say  the  unemployable,  even 
though  I  could  occasionally  wring  a  pose  from  one  of 
them. 


WHEN  FIRST  SHE   CAME  128 

Many  and  strange  were  the  expedients  to  which  I 
had  to  resort  in  the  execution  of  those  drawings  for 
the  Graphic.  For  one  series  that  set  forth  the  romantic 
and  cheiromantic  adventures  of  a  clergyman,  and  the 
lady  (Martin)  of  his  choice,  the  bedroom  of  a  clerical 
guest  had  to  be  burgled,  and  his  Sunday  coat  and  hat 
abstracted,  at  imminent  risk  of  discovery.  In  another, 
entitled  "  A  Mule  Ride  in  Trinidad,"  a  brother,  in 
the  exiguous  costume  of  bathing  drawers  and  a  large 
straw  hat,  was  for  two  mornings  one  of  the  attractions 
and  ornaments  of  the  Purlieu,  after  which  he  retired 
to  bed  with  a  heavy  cold,  calling  down  curses  upon 
the  Purlieu  stove  (an  objet  d'art  of  which  Mrs. 
Martin  had  said  that  it  solved  the  problem  of  pro- 
ducing smoke  without  fire).  Of  another  series  dealing 
with  the  adventures  of  a  student  of  the  violin  in  Paris, 
I  find  in  my  diary  the  moving  entry,  "  Crucified 
Martin  head  downwards,  as  the  fiddle  girl,  practising, 
with  her  music  on  the  floor.  Compelled  H."  (another 
female  relative  whose  name  shall  be  withheld)  "  to 
pose  as  a  Paris  tram  horse,  in  white  stockings,  with 
a  chowrie  for  a  tail." 

These  artistic  exertions  were  varied  by  schooling 
the  carriage  horses  across  country — in  this  connection 
I  find  mention  of  a  youth  imported  by  a  brother, 
and  briefly  alluded  to  by  Martin  as  "  a  being  like 
a  little  meek  bird  with  a  brogue  "  ;  tobogganing  in  a 
bath  chair  down  the  village  hill  (Castle  Townshend 
Hill,  which  has  a  fall  of  about  fifty  feet  in  two) ; 
"  giant-striding  "  on  the  fly  pole  in  January  mud  ; 
and,  by  the  exercise  of  Machiavellian  diplomacy, 
securing  Sorcerer  and  Ballyhooly,  the  carriage  horses 
aforesaid,  for  an  occasional  day  with  a  scratch  pack 
of  trencher-fed  hounds,  that  visited  the  country  at 
intervals,  and  for  whom  the  epithet  "  scratch  "  was 
appropriate  in  more  senses  than  one. 


124  IRISH  MEMORIES 

It  is  perhaps  noteworthy  that  on  my  second  or 
third  meeting  with  Martin  I  suggested  to  her  that  we 
should  write  a  book  together  and  that  I  should  illus- 
trate it.  We  had  each  of  us  already  made  our  debut 
in  print ;  she  in  the  grave  columns  of  the  Irish  Times, 
with  an  article  on  the  Administration  of  Relief  to  the 
Sufferers  from  the  "  Bad  Times  "  of  which  she  makes 
mention  in  her  memoir  of  her  brother  Robert  (page 
37) ;  I  in  the  Argosy,  with  a  short  story,  founded  upon 
an  incident  of  high  improbability,  recounted,  by  the 
way,  by  the  "  little  meek  bird  with  a  brogue  ";  and 
not,  I  fear,  made  more  credible  by  my  rendering  of 
it,  which  had  all  the  worst  faults  of  conventionality 
and  sensationalism. 

The  literary  atmosphere  that  year  was  full  of  what 
were  known  as  "  Shilling  Shockers."  A  great  hit  had 
been  made  with  a  book  of  this  variety,  named 
"  Called  Back,"  and  two  cousins  of  our  mothers',  Mr. 
W.  Wills  (the  dramatist,  already  mentioned),  and  the 
Hon.  Mrs.  Greene  (whose  delightful  stories  for  children, 
"  Cushions  and  Corners,"  "  The  Grey  House  on  the 
Hill,"  etc.,  mark  an  epoch  in  such  literature),  were 
reported  to  be  collaborating  in  such  a  work.  But 
I  went  to  Paris,  and  Martin  put  forth  on  a  prolonged 
round  of  visits,  and  our  literary  ambitions  were  stowed 
away  with  our  winter  clothes. 

In  June  I  returned  from  Paris ;  **  pale  and 
dwindled,"  Martin's  diary  mentions,  "  but  fashion- 
able," which  I  find  gratifying,  though  quite  untrue. 
It  was  one  of  those  perfect  summers  that  come  some- 
times to  the  south  of  Ireland,  when  rain  is  not,  and 
the  sun  is  hot,  but  never  too  hot,  and  the  gardens 
are  a  storm  of  flowers,  flowers  such  as  one  does  not 
see  elsewhere,  children  of  the  south  and  the  sun 
and  the  sea  ;  tall  delphiniums  that  have  climbed  to 
the  sky  and  brought  down  its  most  heavenly  blue  ; 


WHEN  FIRST  SHE   CAME  125 

Japanese  iris,  with  their  pale  and  dappled  lilac  discs 
spread  forth  to  the  sun,  like  little  plates  and  saucers 
at  a  high  and  honourable  "  tea  ceremony  "  in  the 
land  of  Nippon ;  peonies  and  poppies,  arums  and 
asphodel,  every  one  of  them  three  times  as  tall,  and 
three  times  as  brilliant,  and  three  times  as  sweet  as 
any  of  their  English  cousins,  and  all  of  them,  and 
everything  else  as  well,  irradiated  for  me  that  happy 
year  by  a  new  "  Spirit  of  Delight."  It  was,  as  I  have 
said,  though  then  we  knew  it  only  dimly,  the  beginning, 
for  us,  of  a  new  era.  For  most  boys  and  girls  the 
varying,  yet  invariable,  flirtations,  and  emotional 
episodes  of  youth,  are  resolved  and  composed  by 
marriage.  To  Martin  and  to  me  was  opened  another 
way,  and  the  flowering  of  both  our  lives  was  when  we 
met  each  other. 

If  ever  Ireland  should  become  organised  and 
systematised,  and  allotmented,  I  would  put  in  a 
plea  that  the  parish  of  Castle  Haven  may  be  kept 
as  a  national  reserve  for  idlers  and  artists  and  idealists. 
The  memory  comes  back  to  me  of  those  blue  mornings 
of  mid-June  that  Martin  and  I,  with  perhaps  the 
saving  pretence  of  a  paint-box,  used  to  spend,  lying 
on  the  warm,  short  grass  of  the  sheep  fields  on 
Drishane  Side,  high  over  the  harbour,  listening  to  the 
curving  cry  of  the  curlews  and  the  mewing  of  the 
sea-gulls,  as  they  drifted  in  the  blue  over  our  heads  ; 
watching  the  sunlight  waking  dancing  stars  to  life 
in  the  deeper  blue  firmament  below,  and  criticising 
condescendingly  the  manoeuvres  of  the  little  white- 
sailed  racing  yachts,  as  they  strove  and  squeezed 
round  their  mark-buoys,  or  rushed  emulously  to  the 
horizon  and  back  again.  Below  us,  by  a  hundred 
feet  or  so,  other  idlers  bathed  in  the  Dutchman's 
Cove,  uttering  those  sea-bird  screams  that  seem  to 
be  induced  by  the  sea  equally  in  girls  as  in  gulls. 


126  IRISH  MEMORIES 

But  Martin  and  I,  having  taken  high  ground  as  artists 
and  ideahsts,  remained,  roasting  gloriously  in  the 
sun,  at  the  top  of  the  cliffs. 

That  summer  was  for  all  of  us  a  time  of  extreme 
and  excessive  lawn  tennis.  Tournaments,  formal  and 
informal,  were  incessant,  challenges  and  matches 
raged.  Martin  and  I  played  an  unforgettable  match 
against  two  long-legged  lads,  whose  handicap,  con- 
sisting as  it  did  in  tight  skirts,  and  highly-trimmed 
mushroom  hats,  pressed  nearly  as  heavily  on  us  as 
on  them.  My  mother,  and  a  female  friend  of  like 
passions  with  herself,  had  backed  us  to  win,  and  they 
kept  up  a  wonderful  and  shameless  barrage  of  abuse 
between  the  petticoated  warriors  and  their  game,  and 
an  equally  staunch  supporting  fire  of  encouragement 
to  us.  When  at  last  Martin  and  I  triumphed,  my 
mother  and  the  female  friend  were  voiceless  from  long 
screaming,  but  they  rushed  speechlessly  into  the 
middle  of  the  court  and  there  flung  themselves  into 
each  other's  arms. 

It  was  one  of  those  times  of  high  tide  that  come  now 
and  then,  and  not  in  the  Golden  World  did  the  time 
fleet  more  carelessly  than  it  did  for  all  of  us  that 
summer.  The  mornings  for  sheer  idling,  the  after- 
noons for  lawn  tennis,  the  evenings  for  dancing,  to 
my  mother's  unrivalled  playing ;  or  there  was  a 
coming  concert,  or  a  function  in  the  church,  to  be 
practised  for.  A  new  and  zealous  clergyman  had 
recently  taken  the  place  of  a  very  easy-going  cousin  of 
my  mother's,  and  I  find  in  Martin's  diary  this  entry  : 

"  Unparalleled  insolence  of  the  new  Parson,  who 
wanted  to  know,  on  Saturday,  if  Edith  had  yet  chosen 
the  hymns  !  "  and  again — "  E.  by  superhuman  exer- 
tions, got  the  hymns  away  "  (i.e.  sent  up  to  the  reading 

desk)   "  before   the   3rd   Collect.    Canon swore 

himself  in." 

Kind  and  excellent  man  !     Had  the  organist  been 


WHEN  FIRST  SHE   CAME  127 

the  subject  sworn  about,  no  one  could  have  blamed 
him.  It  was  his  hat  and  coat  that  we  stole.  His 
wondrous  gentleness  and  long  suffering  with  a  rap- 
scallion choir  shall  not  be  forgotten  by  a  no  less 
rapscallion  organist. 

When  I  try  to  recall  that  lovely  summer  and  its 
successor,  the  year  of  the  old  Queen's  First  Jubilee, 
1887, 1  seem  best  to  remember  those  magical  evenings 
when  two  or  three  boat-loads  of  us  would  row  "  up 
the  river,"  which  is  no  river,  but  a  narrow  and 
winding  sea-creek,  of,  as  we  hold,  unparalleled 
beauty,  between  high  hills,  with  trees  on  both  its 
sides,  drooping  low  over  the  water,  and  seaweed, 
instead  of  ivy,  hanging  from  their  branches.  Nothing 
more  enchanting  than  resting  on  one's  oars  in  the 
heart  of  that  dark  mirror,  with  no  sound  but  the  sleepy 
chuckle  of  the  herons  in  the  tall  trees  on  the  hill-side, 
or  the  gurgle  of  the  tide  against  the  bows,  until  some- 
one, perhaps,  would  start  one  of  the  glees  that  were 
being  practised  for  the  then  concert — there  was 
always  one  in  the  offing— and  the  Echo,  that  dwells 
opposite  Roger's  Island,  would  wake  from  its  sleep 
and  join  in,  not  more  than  half  a  minute  behind  the 
beat. 

Or  out  at  the  mouth  of  the  harbour,  the  boats 
rocking  a  little  in  the  wide  golden  fields  of  moon- 
light, golden  as  sunlight,  almost,  in  those  August 
nights,  and  the  lazy  oars,  paddling  in  what  seemed 
a  sea  of  opal  oil,  would  drip  with  the  pale  flames 
of  the  phosphorus  that  seethed  and  whispered  at 
their  touch,  when,  as  Martin  has  said, 

"  Land  and  sea  lay  in  rapt  accord,  and  the  breast 
of  the  brimming  tide  was  laid  to  the  breast  of  the 
cliff,  with  a  low  and  broken  voice  of  joy." 

These  are  some  of  those  Irish  yesterdays,  that  came 
and  went  lightly,  and  were  more  memorable  than 
Martin  and  I  knew,  that  summer,  when  first  she  came. 


CHAPTER   XI 


I  THINK  that  the  final  impulse  towards  the  career 
of  letters  was  given  to  us  by  that  sorceress  of  whom 
mention  has  already  been  made.  By  her  we  were 
assured  of  much  that  we  did,  and  even  more  that 
we  did  not  aspire  to  (which  included  two  husbands 
for  me,  and  at  least  one  for  Martin) ;  but  in  the  former 
category  was  included  "  literary  success,"  and,  with 
that  we  took  heart  and  went  forward. 

It  was  in  October,  1887,  that  we  began  what  was 
soon  to  be  known  to  us  as  "  The  Shocker,"  and  "  The 
Shaughraun,"  to  our  family  generally,  as  '*  that 
nonsense  of  the  girls,"  and  subsequently,  to  the  general 
public,  as  "  An  Irish  Cousin."  Seldom  have  the 
young  and  ardent  "  commenced  author  "  under  less 
conducive  circumstances.  We  were  resented  on  so 
many  grounds.  Waste  of  time ;  the  arrogance  of 
having  conceived  such  a  project ;  and,  chiefly,  the 
abstention  of  two  playmates.  They  called  us  "  The 
Shockers,"  "  The  Geniuses "  (this  in  bitter  irony), 
"  The  Hugger-muggerers  "  (this  flight  of  fancy  was 
my  mother's) ;  when  not  actually  reviled,  we  were 
treated  with  much  the  same  disapproving  sufferance 
that  is  shown  to  an  outside  dog  who  sneaks  into  the 
house  on  a  wet  day.  We  compared  ourselves,  not 
without  reason,  to  the  Waldenses  and  the  Albigenses, 


^'AN  IRISH   COUSIN''  129 

and  hid  and  fled  about  the  house,  with  the  knowledge 
that  every  man's  hand  was  against  us. 

Begun  in  idleness  and  without  conviction,  persecu- 
tion had  its  usual  effect,  and  deepened  somewhat  tepid 
effort  into  enthusiasm,  but  the  first  genuine  literary- 
impulse  was  given  by  a  visit  to  an  old  and  lonely 
house,  that  stands  on  the  edge  of  the  sea,  some 
twelve  or  thirteen  miles  from  Drishane.  It  was  at 
that  time  inhabited  by  a  distant  kinswoman  of  mine, 
a  pathetic  little  old  spinster  lady,  with  the  most 
charming,  refined,  and  delicate  looks,  and  a  pretty 
voice,  made  interesting  by  the  old-fashioned  Irish 
touch  in  it ;  provincial,  in  that  it  told  of  life  in  a 
province,  yet  entirely  compatible  with  gentle  breeding. 
She  called  me  "  Eddith,"  I  remember  (a  pronunciation 
entirely  her  own),  and  she  addressed  the  remarkable 
being  who  ushered  us  in,  half  butler,  half  coachman, 
as  "  Dinnis,"  and  she  asked  us  to  "  take  a  glass  of 
wine  "  with  her,  and,  apologising  for  the  all  too  brief 
glimpse  of  the  fire  vouchsafed  to  the  leg  of  mutton, 
said  she  trusted  we  did  not  mind  the  meat  being 
"  rare." 

The  little  lady  who  entertained  us  is  dead  now  ;  the 
old  house,  stripped  of  its  ancient  portraits  and  furni- 
ture, is,  like  many  another,  in  the  hands  of  farmer- 
people  ;  its  gardens  have  reverted  to  jungle.  I  wonder 
if  the  tombstone  of  the  little  pet  dog  has  been 
respected.  In  the  shade  of  a  row  of  immense  junipers, 
that  made  a  sheltering  hedge  between  the  flower 
garden  and  the  wide  Atlantic,  stood  the  stone,  in- 
scribed, with  the  romantic  preciosity  of  our  hostess's 

youth, 

"  Lily,  a  violet-shrouded  tomb  of  woe." 

But  it  was  the  old  house,  dying  even  then,  that 
touched  our  imaginations  ;  full  of  memories  of  brave 
days  past,  when  the  little  lady's  great-grandfather, 

K 


180  IRISH  MEMORIES 

"  Splendid  Ned,"  had  been  a  leading  blade  in  "  The 
County  of  Corke  Militia  Dragoons,"  and  his  son,  her 
grandfather,  had  raised  a  troop  of  yeomanry  to  fight 
the  Whiteboys,  and,  when  the  English  Government 
disbanded  the  yeomen,  had,  in  just  fury,  pitched  their 
arms  over  the  cliff  into  the  sea,  rather  than  yield  them 
to  the  rebels,  and  had  then  drunk  the  King's  health, 
with  showy  loyalty,  in  claret  that  had  never  paid  the 
same  King  a  farthing. 

We  had  ridden  the  long  thirteen  miles  in  gorgeous 
October  sunshine  ;  before  we  had  seen  the  gardens, 
and  the  old  castle  on  the  cliff,  and  the  views  generally, 
the  sun  was  low  in  the  sky,  but  we  were  not  allowed 
to  leave  until  a  tea,  as  colossal  as  our  lunch  had  been, 
was  consumed.  Our  protests  were  unheeded,  and  we 
were  assured  that  we  should  be  "no  time  at  all 
springing  through  the  country  home."  (A  sugges- 
tion that  moved  Martin  so  disastrously,  that  only  by 
means  of  hasty  and  forced  facetiousness  was  I  enabled 
to  justify  her  reception  of  it.)  The  sunset  was  red 
in  the  west  when  our  horses  were  brought  round  to 
the  door,  and  it  was  at  that  precise  moment  that 
into  the  Irish  Cousin  some  thrill  of  genuineness  was 
breathed.  In  the  darkened  fa9ade  of  the  long  grey 
house,  a  window,  just  over  the  hall-door,  caught  our 
attention.  In  it,  for  an  instant,  was  a  white  face. 
Trails  of  ivy  hung  over  the  panes,  but  we  saw  the 
face  glimmer  there  for  a  minute  and  vanish. 

As  we  rode  home  along  the  side  of  the  hills,  and 
watched  the  fires  of  the  sunset  sink  into  the  sea,  and 
met  the  crescent  moon  coming  with  faint  light  to 
lead  us  home,  we  could  talk  and  think  only  of  that 
presence  at  the  window.  We  had  been  warned  of 
certain  subjects  not  to  be  approached,  and  knew 
enough  of  the  history  of  that  old  house  to  realise 
what  we  had  seen.      An  old  stock,  isolated  from  the 


"AN  IRISH   COUSIN''  181 

world  at  large,  wearing  itself  out  in  those  excesses 
that  are  a  protest  of  human  nature  against  unnatural 
conditions,  dies  at  last  with  its  victims  round  its 
death-bed.  Half-acknowledged,  half-witted,  wholly 
horrifying ;  living  ghosts,  haunting  the  house  that 
gave  them  but  half  their  share  of  life,  yet  withheld 
from  them,  with  half-hearted  guardianship,  the  boon 
of  death. 

The  shock  of  it  was  what  we  had  needed,  and  with 
it  "  the  Shocker  "  started  into  life,  or,  if  that  is  too 
much  to  say  for  it,  its  authors,  at  least,  felt  that 
conviction  had  come  to  them  ;  the  insincere  ambition 
of  the  "  Penny  Dreadful  "  faded,  realities  asserted 
themselves,  and  the  faked  "  thrills  "  that  were  to 
make  our  fortunes  were  repudiated  for  ever.  Little 
as  we  may  have  achieved  it,  an  ideal  of  Art  rose  then 
for  us,  far  and  faint  as  the  half-moon,  and  often,  like 
her,  hidden  in  clouds,  yet  never  quite  lost  or  forgotten. 

*  Hf  i¥  *  * 

Probably  all  those  who  have  driven  the  pen,  in 
either  single  or  double  harness,  are  familiar  with 
the  questions  wont  to  be  propounded  by  those  inte- 
rested, or  anxious  to  appear  interested,  in  the  craft 
of  letters.  It  is  strange  how  beaten  a  track  curiosity 
uses.  The  inquiries  vary  but  little.  One  type  of 
investigator  regards  the  metier  of  book-maker  as  a 
kind  of  cross  between  the  trades  of  cook  and  conjurer. 
If  the  recipe  of  the  mixture,  or  the  trick  of  its  produc- 
tion, can  be  extracted  from  those  possessed  of  the 
secret,  the  desired  result  can  be  achieved  as  simply 
as  a  rice  pudding,  and  forced  like  a  card  upon  the 
pubhshers.  The  alternative  inquirer  approaches  the 
problem  from  the  opposite  pole,  and  poses  respect- 
fully that  conundrum  with  which  the  Youth  felled 
Father  William  : 

"  What  makes  you  so  awfully  clever  ?  "      "  How 

K  2 


132  IRISH  MEMORIES 

do  you  think  of  the  things  ?  "  And  again,  "  How 
can  you  make  the  words  come  one  after  the  other  ?  " 
And  yet  another,  more  wounding,  though  put  in  all 
good  feeling,  "  But  how  do  you  manage  about  the 
spelling  ?  I  suppose  the  printers  do  that  for  you  ?  " 
With  Martin  and  me,  however,  the  fact  of  our 
collaboration  admitted  of  variants.  I  have  found  a 
fragment  of  a  letter  of  mine  to  her  that  sets  forth 
some  of  these.  As  it  also  in  some  degree  expounds 
the  type  of  the  examiner,  I  transcribe  it  all. 

E.  (E.  S.  to  V.  F.  M.  (circa  1904). 

"  She  was  wearing  white  kid  gloves,  and  was 
eating  heavily  buttered  teacake  and  drinking  tea, 
with  her  gloves  buttoned,  and  her  veil  down,  and 
her  loins,  generally,  girded,  as  if  she  were  keeping 
the  Passover.  She  began  by  discussing  Archdeacon 
Z 's  wife. 

"  *  Ah,  she  was  a  sweet  woman,  but  she  always  had 
a  very  delicate,  puny  sort  of  a  colour.  Ah  no,  not 
strong.'  A  sigh,  made  difficult,  but  very  moving, 
by  teacake,  followed  by  hurried  absorption  of  tea. 
'  And  the  poor  Archdeacon  too.  Ah,  he  was  a  very 
clever  man.'  (My  countenance  probably  expressed 
dissent.)  *  Well,  he  was  very  clever  at  religion. 
Oh,  he  was  a  wonderfully  holy  man  !  Now,  that's 
what  I'd  call  him,  holy.  And  he  used  to  talk  like  that. 
Nothing  but  religion ;  he  certainly  was  most  clever 
at  it.' 

"  Later  on  in  the  conversation,  which  lasted,  most 
en  joy  ably,  for  half  an  hour,  '  Are  you  the  Miss  Somer- 
ville  who  writes  the  books  with  Miss  Martin  ?  Now ! 
To  think  I  should  have  been  talking  to  you  all  this 
time  !  And  is  it  you  that  do  the  story  and  Miss  Martin 
the  words  ?  '  (etc.,  etc.,  for  some  time).  '  And  which 
of  you  holds  the    pen  ?  '       (To  this  branch  of  the 


''AN  IRISH   COUSIN''  188 

examination  much  weight  was  attached,  and  it 
continued  for  some  time.)  '  And  do  you  put  in 
everyone  you  meet  ?  No  ?  Only  sometimes  ?  And 
sometimes  people  who  you  never  met  ?  Well !  I 
declare,  that's  like  direct  inspiration  !  ' 

"  She  was  a  delightful  woman.  She  went  on  to 
ask  me, 

"  *  Do  you  travel  much  ?  I  love  it !  I  think 
Abroad's  very  pritty.     Do  you  like  Abroad  ?  * 

"  She  also  told  me  that  she  and  '  me  daughter  * 
had  just  been  to  Dublin — *  to  see  the  great  tree 
y'know.'  By  the  aid  of  '  direct  inspiration '  I 
guessed  that  she  meant  Beerbohm  of  that  ilk,  but  as 
she  hadn't  mentioned  the  theatre,  I  think  it  was 
rather  a  fine  effort." 

The  question  put  by  this  lady,  as  to  which  of  us 
held  the  pen,  has  ever  been  considered  of  the  greatest 
moment,  and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  during  our  many 
years  of  collaboration,  it  was  a  point  that  never 
entered  our  minds  to  consider.  To  those  who  may  be 
interested  in  an  unimportant  detail,  I  may  say  that 
our  work  was  done  conversationally.  One  or  the 
other — not  infrequently  both,  simultaneously — would 
state  a  proposition.  This  would  be  argued,  combated 
perhaps,  approved,  or  modified ;  it  would  then  be 
written  down  by  the  (wholly  fortuitous)  holder  of 
the  pen,  would  be  scratched  out,  scribbled  in  again ; 
before  it  found  itself  finally  transferred  into  decorous 
MS.  would  probably  have  suffered  many  things,  but 
it  would,  at  all  events,  have  had  the  advantage  of 
having  been  well  aired. 

I  have  an  interesting  letter,  written  by  a  very  clever 
woman,  herself  a  writer,  to  a  cousin  of  ours.  She 
found  it  impossible  to  believe  in  the  jointness  of 
the   authorship,   though   she   admitted  her  inability 


134  IRISH  MEMORIES 

to  discern  the  joints  in  the  writing,  and  having 
given  "  An  Irish  Cousin  "  a  handhng  far  more  generous 
than  it  deserves,  says  : 

**  But  though  I  think  the  book  a  ^  success,  and 
cannot  pick  out  the  fastenings  of  the  two  hands,  I 
yet  think  the  next  novel  ought  to  be  by  one  of  them. 
I  wonder  by  which  !  I  say  this  because  I  thought 
the  conception  and  carrying  out  of  '  Willy  '  much 
the  best  part  of  the  character  drawing  of  the  whole 
book.  It  had  the  real  thing  in  it.  If  Willy,  and  the 
poor  people's  talk,  were  by  one  hand,  that  hand  is 
the  better  of  the  two,  say  I !  " 

I  sent  this  letter  to  Martin,  and  had  "  the  two 
hands  "  collaborated  in  her  reply,  it  could  not  more 
sufficingly  have  expressed  my  feelings. 

V.  F.  M.  to  E.  (E.  S.      (Sept.,  1889.) 

"  You  do  not  say  if  you  want  Miss 's  most 

interesting  letter  back.  Never  mind  what  she  says 
about  people  writing  together.  We  have  proved  that 
we  can  do  it,  and  we  shall  go  on.  The  reason  few 
people  can,  is  because  they  have  separate  minds 
upon  most  subjects,  and  fight  their  own  hands  all 
the  time.  I  think  the  two  Shockers  have  a  very 
strange  belief  in  each  other,  joined  to  a  critical  faculty  ; 
added  to  which,  writing  together  is,  to  me  at  least, 
one  of  the  greatest  pleasures  I  have.  To  write  with 
you  doubles  the  triumph  and  the  enjoyment,  having 
first  halved  the  trouble  and  anxiety." 

On  January  3rd,  1888,  we  had  finished  the  first 
half  of  "  An  Irish  Cousin." 

I  find  in  my  diary :  "A  few  last  re  visionary 
scratches  at  the  poor  Shocker,  and  so  farewell  for  the 
present.     Gave  it  to  mother  to  read.     She  loathes  it." 

All  through  the  spring  months  we  wrote  and  rewrote. 


''AN  IRISH   COUSIN''  135 

and  clean-copied,  and  cast  away  the  clean  copies 
illegible  from  corrections.  Intermittently,  and  as  we 
could,  we  wrote  on,  and  in  Martin's  diary  I  find  a 
quotation  from  an  old  part-song  that  expressed  the 
general  attitude  towards  us  : 

"  Thus  flies  the  dolphin  from  the  shark, 
And  the  stag  before  the  hounds." 

Martin  and  I  were  the  dolphin  and  the  stag.  As  a 
propitiatory  measure  the  Shocker  was  read  aloud  at 
intervals,  but  with  no  great  success.  Our  families 
declined  to  take  us  seriously,  but  none  the  less  offered 
criticisms,  incessant,  and  mutually  destructive.  In 
connection  with  this  point,  and  as  a  warning  to  other 
beginners,  I  will  offer  a  few  quotations  from  letters 
of  this  period. 

E.  (E.  S.  to  V.  F.  M.     (Spring,  1888.) 

"  Minnie  says  you  are  too  refined,  and  too  anxious 
not  to  have  anything  in  our  book  that  was  ever  in 
anyone  else's  book.  Mother,  on  the  other  hand, 
complained  bitterly  of  the  want  of  love  interest. 
Minnie  defended  us,  and  told  her  that  there  was  now 
plenty  of  love  in  it.  To  which  Mother,  who  had  not 
then  read  the  proposal,  replied  with  infinite  scorn, 
'  only  squeezing  her  hand,  my  dear  !  '  She  went  on 
to  say  that  she  '  liked  improprieties.'  I  assured  her 
I  had  urged  you  in  vain  to  permit  such,  and  she 
declared  that  you  were  quite  wrong,  and  when  I 
suggested  the  comments  of  The  Family,  she  loudly 
deplored  the  fact  of  our  writing  being  known,  ignoring 
the  fact  that  she  has  herself  blazoned  it  to  the  ends 
of  the  earth  and  to  Aunt  X." 

Following  on  this,  a  protest  is  recorded  from  another 
relative,  on  the  use  of  the  expression  "  he  ran  as  if 


136  IRISH  MEMORIES 

the  devil  were  after  him,"  but  the  letter  ends  with  a 
reassuring  postscript. 

"  Mother  has  just  said  that  she  thought  Chapter  IX 
excellent,  '  most  fiery  love  * ;  though  she  said  it  had 
rather  taken  her  by  surprise,  as  she  *  had  not  noticed 
a  stream  of  love  leading  up  to  it — only  jealousy.'  " 

At  length,  in  London,  on  May  24th,  the  end,  which 
had  seemed  further  off  than  the  end  of  the  world, 
came.  The  MS.,  fairly  and  beautifully  copied, — type- 
writers being  then  unborn, — was  sent  off  to  Messrs. 
Sampson  Low.  In  a  month  it  returned,  without 
comment.  We  then,  with,  as  Dr.  Johnson  says,  "  a 
frigid  tranquillity,  having  little  to  fear  or  hope  from 
censure,  or  from  praise,"  placed  it  in  the  hands  of  a 
friend  to  do  with  it  as  he  saw  fit,  and  proceeded  to 
forget  all  about  it. 

It  was  not  until  the  following  December  that  the 
dormant  Shocker  suddenly  woke  to  life.  It  was  on 
Sunday  morning,  December  2nd,  1888,  that  the 
fateful  letter  came.  Messrs.  R.  Bentley  &  Son  offered 
us  £25  on  publication,  and  £25  on  sale  of  500  copies 
of  the  book,  which  was  to  be  published  in  two  volumes 
at  half  a  guinea  each. 

"  All  comment  is  inadequate,"  says  Martin's  diary  ; 
"  wrote  a  dizzy  letter  of  acceptance  to  Bentley,  and 
went  to  church,  twice,  in  a  glorified  trance." 

(Thus  did  a  huntsman  of  mine,  having  slain  two 
foxes  in  a  morning,  which  is  a  rarer  feat  in  Carbery 
than — say — in  Cheshire,  present  himself  in  gratitude 
at  the  priest's  night-school.) 

Passing  over  intermediate  matters,  I  will  follow 
the  career  of  the  Shocker,  which  was  not  published 
for  six  months  after  its  assignment  to  Messrs.  Bentley, 
six  months  during  which  Martin  had  written  several 
admirable  articles  for  The  World  (then  edited  by 
Mr.  Edmund  Yates),  and  I  had  illustrated  a  picture- 


"^iV  IRISH   COUSIN''  187 

book,  "  The  Kerry  Recruit,"  and  written  an  indifferent 
short  story,  and  we  had  begun  to  think  about  "  The 
Real  Charlotte."  For  some  reason  that  I  have  now 
forgotten,  my  mother  was  opposed  to  my  own  name 
appearing  in  "  An  Irish  Cousin."  Martin's  nom  de 
plume  was  ready  to  hand,  her  articles  in  The  World 
having  been  signed  "  Martin  Ross,"  but  it  was  only 
after  much  debate  and  searching  of  pedigrees  that 
a  Somerville  ancestress,  by  name  Geilles  Herring,  was 
selected  to  face  the  music  for  me.  Her  literary 
career  was  brief,  and  was  given  a  death-blow  by 
Edmund  Yates,  who  asked  "  Martin  Ross  "  the  reason 
of  her  collaboration  with  a  grilled  herring ;  and  as 
well  as  I  remember,  my  own  name  was  permitted  to 
appear  in  the  second  edition. 

This  followed  the  first  with  a  pleasing  celerity,  and 
was  sold  out  by  the  close  of  the  year.  Any  who  have 
themselves  been  through  the  mill,  and  know  what  it 
is  to  bring  forth  a  book,  will  remember  the  joys,  and 
fears,  and  indignations,  and  triumphings,  that  accom- 
pany the  appearance  of  a  first-born  effort.  Many  and 
various  were  the  letters  and  criticisms.  Our  vast 
relationship  made  an  advertising  agency  of  the  most 
far-reaching  and  pervasive  nature,  and  our  friends 
were  faithful  in  their  insistence  in  the  matter  at  the 
libraries. 

"  Have  you  '  An  Irish  Cousin  ?  '  "  was  demanded  at 
a  Portsmouth  bookshop. 

"  No,  Madam,"  the  bookseller  replied,  with  hauteur, 
"  I  have  no  H'Irish  relations." 

Looking  back  on  it  now,  I  recognise  that  what  was 
in  itself  but  a  very  moderate  and  poorly  constructed 
book  owed  its  success,  not  only  with  the  public,  but 
with  the  reviewers,  to  the  fact  that  it  chanced  to  be 
the  first  in  its  particular  field.  Miss  Edgeworth 
had  been  the  last  to  write  of  Irish  country  life  with 


138  IRISH  MEMORIES 

sincerity  and  originality,  dealing  with  both  the  upper 
and  lower  classes,  and  dealing  with  both  uncon- 
ventionally. Lever's  brilliant  and  extravagant  books, 
with  their  ever  enchanting  Micky  Frees  and  Corney 
Delaneys,  merely  created  and  throned  the  stage 
Irishman,  the  apotheosis  of  the  English  ideal.  It 
was  of  Lever's  period  to  be  extravagant.  The 
Handley  Cross  series  is  a  case  in  point.  Let  me 
humbly  and  hurriedly  disclaim  any  impious  thought 
of  depreciating  Surtees.  No  one  who  has  ever  ridden 
a  hunt,  or  loved  a  hound,  but  must  admit  that  he 
has  his  unsurpassable  moments.  "  The  Cat  and 
Custard-pot  day,"  with  that  run  that  goes  with  the 
rush  of  a  storm ;  the  tete-a-tete  of  Mr.  Jorrocks  and 
James  Pigg,  during  which  they  drank  each  other's 
healths,  and  the  healths  of  the  hounds,  and  the 
seance  culminated  with  the  immortal  definition  of 
the  state  of  the  weather,  as  it  obtained  in  the  cup- 
board ;  Soapey  Sponge  and  Lucy  Glitters  "  saiUng 
away  with  the  again  breast-high-scent  pack  "—these 
things  are  indeed  hors  concours.  But  I  think  it  is 
undeniable  that  the  hunting  people  of  Handley  Cross, 
like  Lever's  dragoons,  were  always  at  full  gallop. 
With  Surtees  as  with  Lever,  everyone  is  "  all  out," 
there  is  nothing  in  hand — save  perhaps  a  pair  of 
duelling  pistols  or  a  tandem  whip— and  the  height  of 
the  spirits  is  only  equalled  by  the  tallness  of  the  hero's 
talk.  That  intolerable  adjective  "  rollicking "  is 
consecrated  to  Lever ;  if  certain  of  the  rank  and  file 
of  the  reviewers  of  our  later  books  could  have  realised 
with  what  abhorrence  we  found  it  applied  to  ourselves, 
and  could  have  known  how  rigorously  we  had  en- 
deavoured to  purge  our  work  of  anything  that  might 
justify  it,  they  might,  out  of  the  kindness  that  they 
have  always  shown  us,  have  been  more  sparing  of  it. 
Lever  was  a  Dublin  man,  who  lived  most  of  his 


EDITH    CENONE   SOMERVILLE. 


^^AN  IRISH  COUSIN''  139 

life  on  the  Continent,  and  worked,  like  a  scene- 
painter,  by  artificial  light,  from  memoranda.  Miss 
Edgeworth  had  the  privilege,  which  was  also  ours,  of 
living  in  Ireland,  in  the  country,  and  among  the  people 
of  whom  she  wrote.  Of  the  Irish  novels  of  Miss  Lawless 
the  same  may  be  said,  though  the  angle  at  which  she 
chose  to  regard  that  many-sided  and  deeply  agreeable 
person,  the  Irish  peasant,  excluded  the  humour  that 
permeates  Miss  Edgeworth's  books.  (One  recalls 
with  gratitude  the  "  quality  toss  "  of  Miss  Judy 
McQuirk.)  That  Miss  Edgeworth's  father  was  a 
landlord,  and  a  resident  one,  deepened  her  insight 
and  widened  her  opportunities.  Panoramic  views 
may,  no  doubt,  be  obtained  from  London  ;  and  what 
a  County  Meath  lady  spoke  of  as  a  "  ventre  a  terre  in 
Dublin  "  has  its  advantages  ;  but  I  am  glad  that  my 
lot  arid  Martin's  were  cast  "  in  a  fair  ground,  in  a 
good  ground.  In  Carbery  " — (with  apologies  to  Mr. 
Kipling)—"  by  the  sea." 

♦  ♦  ♦  *  * 

I  will  not  inflict  the  undeservedly  kind  comments 
of  the  reviewers  of  "  An  Irish  Cousin  "  upon  these 
pages,  though  I  may  admit  that  nothing  that  I  have 
ever  read,  before  or  since,  has  seemed  to  me  as  entirely 
delightful  as  the  column  and  a  half  that  The  Spectator 
generously  devoted  to  a  very  humble  book,  by  two 
unknowns,  who  had  themselves  nearly  lost  belief  in  it. 

August,  1889,  was  a  lucky  month  for  Martin  and 
me.  We  had  a  "  good  Press  " — we  have  often  mar- 
velled at  its  goodness — we  were  justified  of  our  year 
of  despised  effort ;  the  hunted  Shockers  emerged 
from  their  caves  to  take  a  place  in  the  sun ;  we  had 
indeed  "  Commenced  Author." 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE   YEARS   OF   THE   LOCUST 

Before  I  abandon  these  "  Irish  Cousin  "  years  at 
Drishane,  I  should  hke  to  say  something  more  of  the 
old  conditions  there.  I  do  not  think  I  claim  too  much 
for  my  father  and  mother  when  I  say  that  they 
represented  for  the  poor  people  of  the  parish  their 
Earthly  Providence,  their  Court  of  Universal  Appeal, 
and,  in  my  mother's  case,  their  Medical  Attendant, 
who,  moreover,  provided  the  remedies,  as  well  as  the 
nourishment,  that  she  prescribed. 

The  years  of  the  'eighties  were  years  of  leanness, 
"  years  that  the  locust  hath  eaten."  Congested  Dis- 
trict Boards  and  Departments  of  Agriculture  had  not 
then  arisen.  Successive  alterations  of  the  existing 
land  tenure  had  bewildered  rather  than  encouraged 
the  primitive  farmers  of  this  southern  seaboard ;  the 
benefits  promised  were  slow  in  materialising,  and  in 
the  meantime  the  crops  failed.  The  lowering  or 
remission  of  rents  did  not  mean  any  immediate 
benefit  to  people  who  were  often  many  years  in 
arrears.  Even  in  normal  years  the  yield  of  the  land, 
in  the  district  of  which  I  speak,  barely  sufficed  to 
feed  the  dwellers  on  it ;  the  rent,  when  paid,  was,  in 
most  cases,  sent  from  America,  by  emigrated  sons  and 
daughters.  There  was  but  little  margin  at  any  time. 
In  bad  years  there  was  hunger. 


THE   YEARS  OF   THE  LOCUST  141 

Two  or  three  fairly  prosperous  farms  there  were, 
and  for  the  rest,  a  crowd  of  entirely  "  uneconomic  " 
holdings,  a  rabble  of  fragmentary  patches,  scarcely 
larger  than  the  "  allotments  "  of  this  present  war 
time,  each  producing  a  plentiful  crop  of  children,  but 
leaving  much  to  be  desired  in  such  matters  as  the 
increase  of  the  soil. 

The  district  is  not  a  large  one.  It  contains  about 
eight  miles  of  fierce  and  implacable  seaboard,  with 
only  a  couple  of  coves  in  which  the  fishermen  can  find 
some  shelter  for  their  boats,  and  its  whole  extent  is 
but  three  or  four  miles  in  length,  by  a  little  more  than 
half  as  many  in  depth.  A  great  headland,  like  a  lion 
couchant,  sentinels  it  on  one  side  ;  on  the  other,  a  long 
and  malign  spike  of  rock,  thinly  clad  with  heather,  and 
furze,  drives  out  into  the  Atlantic,  like  an  alligator 
with  jaws  turned  seawards.  Not  few  are  the  ships 
that  have  found  their  fate  in  those  jaws  ;  during  these 
past  three  years  of  war,  this  stretch  of  sea  has  seen 
sudden  and  fearful  happenings,  but  even  these  trage- 
dies are  scarcely  more  fearful  than  those  that,  in  the 
blackness  of  mid-winter  storms,  have  befallen 
many  a  ship  on  the  desperate  rocks  of  Yokawn  and 
Reendhacusan. 

It  is  hard  to  blame  people  for  being  ignorant, 
equally  hard  to  condemn  them  for  thriftlessness  and 
dirt  in  such  conditions  as  obtained  thirty  years  ago 
in  what  are  now  called  "  Congested  Districts."  Thrift- 
lessness and  dirt  were  indeed  the  ruling  powers  in 
that  desolate  country.  In  fortunate  years,  desolate 
and  "  congested  "  though  it  was,  its  little  fields,  inset 
among  the  rocks  and  bogs,  could  produce  crops  in 
reasonable  quantity,  and— as  I  do  not  wish  to  overstate 
the  case — not  less  luxuriant  in  growth  than  their 
attendant  weeds.  The  yellow  ragwort,  the  purple 
loosestrife,  the  gorgeous  red  and  orange  heads  of  the 


142  IRISH  MEMORIES 

docks,  only  in  Kerry  can  \he^efieurs  de  mal  be  equalled, 
even  in  Kerry  they  cannot  be  surpassed.  The  huge 
shoulder  of  the  headland  is  beautiful  with  heather 
and  ling  of  all  sorts  and  shades  ;  the  pink  sea-thrift — 
would  that  other  forms  of  thrift  throve  with  equal 
success ! — meets  the  heather  at  the  verge  of  the 
cliffs,  and  looks  like  a  decoration  of  posies  of  monthly 
roses.  Osmunda  Regalis  fern  fringes  the  streams,  and 
the  fuchsia  bushes  have  fed  on  the  Food  of  the  Gods 
and  are  become  trees.  On  a  central  plateau,  high  over 
the  sea,  stands  one  of  the  signal  towers  that  were 
built  at  the  time  of  the  French  landing  in  Bantry. 
In  its  little  courtyard  you  stand  "  ringed  by  the  azure 
world."  From  west  to  east  the  ocean  is  wide  before 
you.  On  many  days  I  have  seen  it,  in  summer  and 
winter  alike  lovely ;  a  vast  outlook  that  snatches 
away  your  breath,  and  takes  you  to  its  bosom,  making 
you  feel  yourself  the  very  apex  and  central  point  of 
the  wondrous  crescent  line  of  fretted  shore,  that 
swings  from  the  far  blue  Fastnet  Rock,  looking  like 
an  anchored  battleship,  on  the  west,  to  the  long  and 
slender  arm  of  the  Galley  Head,  with  its  white  light- 
house, floating  like  a  seagull  on  the  rim  of  the  horizon. 
Between  those  points,  among  those  heavenly  blues  and 
greens  and  purples,  that  change  and  glow  and  melt 
into  each  other  in  ecstasies  of  passionate  colour, 
history  has  been  made,  and  unforgettable  things  have 
happened.  But  standing  up  there  in  the  wind  and  the 
sun,  on  that  small  green  circle  of  grass,  hearing  the 
sea-birds'  wild  and  restless  cries,  watching  the  waves 
lift  and  break  into  snow  on  the  flanks  of  the  Stag 
Rocks  far  below,  it  is  impossible  to  remember  human 
insanity,  impossible  to  think  of  anything  save  of  the 
overwhelming  beauty  that  encircles  you. 

In  that  climate  and  that  soil  anything  could  flourish, 
given  only  a  little  shelter,  and  a  little  care,  and  the 


THE    YEARS  OF  THE  LOCUST  143 

elimination  from  the  cultivators  of  traditional  im- 
becilities ;  eliminating  also,  if  possible,  fatalism,  and 
the  custom  of  attributing  to  "  the  Will  o'  God  "  each 
and  every  disaster,  from  a  houseful  of  hungry  children 
to  an  outbreak  of  typhus  consequent  on  hopelessly 
insanitary  conditions. 

"  How  was  it  the  spuds  failed  with  ye  ?  "  asked 
someone,  looking  at  the  blackened  "  lazy-beds  "  of 
potatoes. 

"  I  couldn't  hardly  say,"  replied  the  cultivator, 
who  had  omitted  the  attention  of  spraying  them ; 
"  Whatever  it  was,  God  spurned  them  in  a  boggy 
place." 

Things  are  better  now.  The  Congested  Districts 
Board  has  done  much,  the  general  spread  of  education 
and  civilisation  has  done  more.  Inspectors,  instruc- 
tors, remission  of  rents,  land  purchase.  State  loans, 
English  money  in  various  forms,  have  improved  the 
conditions  in  a  way  that  would  hardly  have  been 
credible  thirty  years  ago,  when,  in  these  congested 
districts,  semi-famine  was  chronic,  and  few,  besides 
the  "  little  scholars  "  of  the  National  Schools,  could 
read  or  write,  and  the  breeding  of  animals  and 
cultivation  of  crops  was  the  affair  of  an  absentee 
Providence,  and  no  more  to  be  influenced  by  human 
agency  than  the  vagaries  of  the  weather. 

The  first  of  the  "  Famines  "  in  which  I  can  remember 
my  mother's  collecting  and  distributing  relief  was  in 
1880.  The  potatoes  had  failed,  and  I  find  it  recorded 
that  "  troops  of  poor  women  came  to  Brisbane  from 
the  west  for  help."  My  mother  lectured  them  on  the 
necessity  of  not  eating  the  potatoes  that  had  been 
given  them  for  seed,  and  assured  them,  not  as  super- 
fluously as  might  be  supposed,  that  if  they  ate 
them  they  could  not  sow  them.  To  this  they  replied 
in  chorus. 


144  IRISH  MEMORIES 

"  May  the  Lord  spare  your  Honour  long  !  "  and  went 
home  and  boiled  the  seed-potatoes  for  supper. 

Poor  creatures,  what  else  could  they  do,  with  their 
children  asking  them  for  food  ? 

In  that  same  spring  came  a  woman,  crying,  and 
saying  she  was  "  the  most  disthressful  poor  person, 
that  hadn't  the  good  luck  to  be  in  the  Misthress's 
division."     Asked  where  she  lived,  she  replied, 

"I  do  be  like  a  wild  goose  over  on  the  side  of 
Drominidy  Wood." 

Spring  after  spring,  during  those  dark  years  for 
Ireland  of  the  'eighties,  the  misery  and  the  hunger- 
time  recurred.  Seed-potatoes,  supplied  by  charity, 
were  eaten ;  funds  were  raised,  and  help,  public  and 
private,  was  given,  but  Famine,  like  its  brother, 
Typhus,  was  only  conciliated,  never  annihilated. 
In  1891  Mr.  Balfour's  Relief  Fund  and  Relief  Works 
brought  almost  the  first  touch  of  permanence  into  the 
alleviating  conditions.  My  mother  was  among  the 
chief  of  the  distributors  for  this  parish.  Desperate 
though  the  state  of  many  of  the  people  was,  Ireland 
has  not  yet,  thank  Heaven,  ceased  to  be  Ireland,  and 
the  distribution  of  relief  had  some  irrepressibly  enter- 
taining aspects  that  need  not  wholly  be  ignored. 

My  mother  had  herself  collected  a  considerable 
sum  of  money,  for  buying  food  and  clothes  (the 
Government  fund  being,  as  well  as  I  recollect,  mainly 
devoted  to  the  purchase  of  seed-potatoes).  Many 
were  her  clients,  and  grievous  though  their  need  was, 
it  was  impossible  not  to  enjoy  the  high  absurdities 
of  her  convocations  of  distribution.  These  took  place 
in  the  kitchen  at  Drishane.  The  women  came  twice 
a  week  to  get  the  food  tickets,  and  the  preliminary 
gathering  in  the  stable-yard  looked  and  sounded  like 
a  parliament  of  rooks.  Incredibly  ragged  and  wretched, 
but  unquenchable  in  spirit  and  conversation,  they  sat. 


THE   YEARS  OF  THE  LOCUST  145 

huddled  in  dark  cloaks  or  shawls,  on  the  ground  in 
rows,  waiting  to  be  admitted  to  the  kitchen  when  "  The 
Misthress  "  was  ready  for  them.  Most  of  them  had 
known  nothing  of  the  existence  of  the  fund  until  told 
of  it  by  my  mother's  envoys.  It  was  my  mission, 
and  that  of  my  brethren,  to  ride  through  the  dis- 
tressed town-lands,  and  summon  those  who  seemed  in 
worst  need,  and  in  my  letters  and  diaries  of  these 
years  I  have  found  many  entries  on  the  subject. 

"  Jan.  27,  1891. — Rode  round  the  Lickowen  country. 
Sickened  and  stunned  by  the  misery.  Hordes  of 
women  and  children  in  the  filthiest  rags.  Gave  as 
many  bread  and  tea  tickets  as  we  could,  but  felt 
helpless  and  despairing  in  the  face  of  such  hopeless 
poverty." 

"  January  30. — Jack  and  I  again  rode  to  the  West 
to  collect  Widows  for  the  Relief  Fund.  Bagged  nine 
and  had  some  lepping  "  (an  ameliorating  circumstance 
of  these  expeditions  was  the  necessity  of  making 
cross-country  short  cuts).  "  Numbers  of  women  came 
over,  some  being  rank  frauds  ably  detected  by  the 
kitchenmaid  ;  one  or  two  knee-deep  in  lies."  "  The 
boys  walked  to  Bawneshal  with  tea,  etc.,  for  two  of 
the  worst  widows."  (The  adjective  refers  to  their 
social,  not  their  moral  standing.) 

On  another  occasion  I  have  recorded  that  my  sister 
was  sent  to  inquire  into  the  circumstances  of  a  poor 
woman  with  a  large  family.  The  latter,  in  absorbed 
interest  in  the  proceedings,  surrounded  the  mother, 
who  held  in  her  arms  the  most  recent  of  the  number, 
an  infant  three  weeks  old. 

"  I  have  seven  children,"  said  the  pale  mother, 
"  and  this  little  one-een  that,"  she  turned  a  humorous 
grey  eye  on  her  listening  family,  "  I'm  afther  taking 
out  of  the  fox's  mouth  !  "  (The  fox  playing  the  part 
attributed  in  Germany  to  the  stork.) 

L 


146  IRISH  MEMORIES 

My  sister,  absorbed  in  estimating  the  needs  of  the 
seven    Httle    brothers   and  sisters,    replied    absently, 

"  Poor  little  thing  I  It  must  have  been  very 
frightened  !  " 

Mrs.  ConoUy  stared,  and,  in  all  her  misery,  began 
to  laugh  ;  "  May  the  Lord  love  ye.  Miss  !  "  she  said 
compassionately  yet  admiringly,  "  May  ye  never  grow 
grey  !  " 

The  difficulties  of  distribution  were  many,  not  the 
least  being  that  of  steeling  my  mother's  heart,  and 
keeping  her  doles  in  some  reasonable  relation  to  her 
resources.  I  should  like  to  try  to  give  some  idea  of 
one  of  these  gatherings.  Lists  of  those  in  most 
immediate  need  of  help  had  been  prepared,  I  do  not 
now  remember  by  whom,  and,  in  the  majority  of  cases, 
the  names  given  were  those  of  the  males  of  the  respec- 
tive households.  Therefore  would  my  mother,  stand- 
ing tall  and  majestic  in  the  middle  of  the  big,  dark, 
old  kitchen  at  Drishane,  her  list  in  her  hand,  certain 
underlings  (usually  her  daughters  and  the  kitchen- 
maid)  in  attendance,  summon  to  her  presence — let 
us  say — "  John  Collins,  Jeremiah  Leary,  Patrick 
DriscoU."  (These  are  names  typical  of  this  end  of  West 
Carbery,  and  the  subsequent  proceedings,  like  the 
names,  may  be  accepted  in  a  representative  sense.) 

The  underling,  as  Gold  Stick-in-Waiting,  would 
then  advance  to  the  back  door,  and  from  the  closely 
attendant  throng  without  would  draw,  as  one  draws 
hounds  in  kennel,  but  with  far  more  difficulty,  the 
female  equivalents  of  the  gentlemen  in  question. 

"  Now,  John  Collins,"  says  my  mother  (who  declared 
it  confused  her  if  she  didn't  stick  to  what  was  written 
in  the  list),  addressing  a  little  woman,  the  rags  of  whose 
shrouding  black  shawl  made  her  look  like  the  Jackdaw 
of  Rheims  subsequent  to  the  curse,  "  Now,  John 
Collins,  here's  your  ticket.     Is  your  daughter  better  ?  " 


THE   YEARS  OF  THE  LOCUST  147 

"  Why  then  she  is  not,  your  Honour,  Ma'am," 
raphes  John  Colhns  in  a  voluble  whine,  "  only  worse 
she  is.  She  didn't  ate  a  bit  since."  John  Collins 
pauses,  removes  a  hairpin  from  her  back  hair,  and  with 
nicety  indicates  on  it  a  quarter  of  an  inch.  "  God 
knows  she  didn't  ate  that  much  since  your  Honour 
seen  her ;  but  sure  she  might  fancy  some  little  rarity 
that  yourself  'd  send  her." 

There  follow  medical  details  on  which  I  do  not 
propose  to  dwell.  My  mother,  ever  a  mighty  doctor 
before  the  Lord,  prescribes,  promises  "  a  rarity," 
in  the  shape  of  a  rice  pudding,  and  John  Collins,  well 
satisfied,  swings  her  shawl,  yashmak-wise,  across  her 
mouth,  and  pads  away  on  her  bare  feet. 

"  Patrick  DriscoU  !  " 

Patrick  Driscoll,  bony  and  haggard,  the  hood  of 
her  dark  cloak  over  her  red  head,  demands  an  extra 
quantity,  on  the  plea  of  extra  poverty. 

She  is  asked  why  her  husband  does  not  get  work. 

"  Husband  is  it !  "  echoes  Patrick  Driscoll,  wither- 
ingly,  "  What  have  I  but  a  soort  of  an  old  man  of 
a  husband,  that's  no  use  only  to  stay  in  his  bed  !  " 

Other  women  press  in  through  the  doorway,  despite 
the  efforts  of  the  underlings,  each  eloquent  of  her 
superior  sufferings.  Another  husband  is  inquired 
for. 

"  He's  dead,  Ma'am,  the  Lord  ha'  mercy  upon  him, 
he's  in  his  coffin  this  minute ;  and  Fegs,  he  was  in 
the  want  of  it !  " 

Yet  another  has  a  blind  husband. 

"  Dark  as  a  stone,  asthore,"  she  says  to  Gold  Stick, 
"  only  for  he  being  healthy  and  qu'ite,  I'd  be  dead 
altogether  !  Well,  welcome  the  Will  o'  God  !  I 
might  be  worse,  as  bad  as  I  am  !  " 

Philosophy,  resignation,  piety,  humour,  one  finds 
them  all  in  these  bewildering,  infuriating,  enchanting 

L  2 


148  IRISH  MEMORIES 

people.  And  then,  perhaps,  a  cry  from  the  heart  of 
the  crowd, 

"  Sure  ye'll  not  forget  yer  own  darUn'  Mary  Leary  !  " 

A  heartrending  appeal  that  elicits  from  the  Mistress 
a  peremptory  command  not  to  attempt  to  come  out 
of  her  turn. 

Nothing  could  be  more  admirable  than  my  mother's 
manner  with  the  people.  Entirely  simple,  dictatorial, 
sympathetic,  sensible.  She  believed  herself  to  be 
an  infallible  judge  of  character,  but  "  for  all  and  for 
all,"  as  we  say  in  Carbery,  her  soft  heart  was  often  her 
undoing,  and  her  sterner  progeny  found  her  bene- 
volence difficult  to  control.  She  was,  in  fact,  as  a 
man  said  of  a  spendthrift  and  drunken  brother,  "  too 
lion-hearted  for  her  manes  "  (means). 

"  No  wonder,"  said  one  of  her  supplicants,  "  Faith, 
no  wonder  at  all  for  the  Colonel  to  be  proud  of  her ! 
She'd  delight  a  Black  I  " 

Whether  this  imputed  to  the  Black  a  specially 
severe  standard  of  taste,  or  if  it  meant  that  even  the 
most  insensate  savage  would  be  roused  to  enthusiasm 
by  my  mother's  beauty,  I  am  unable  to  deter- 
mine. 

I  have  a  letter  from  my  companion  Gold  Stick,  from 
which  I  think  a  few  quotations,  in  exemplification, 
may  be  permitted. 

HiLDEGARDE    SOMERVILLE  tO  E.   CE.  S.    (Feb.,    1891.) 

"  The  women  have  swarmed  since  you  left.  I 
really  think  I  know  every  one  of  them  now,  by  voice, 
sight,  and  smell,  notably  Widow  Catherine  Cullinane, 
who  has  besieged  us  daily.  Her  voice  is  not  dulcet, 
especially  when  raised  in  abusive  entreaty,  but  she 
has  not  got  anything  out  of  me  yet.  It  is  as  well  that 
C.  (a  brother)  and  I  are  here  to  manage  the  show,  as 
Mother  is,  to  say  the  least,  lavish.     I  was  out  one  day 


THE   YEARS  OF  THE  LOCUST  149 

when  a  woman  called,  a  Mrs.  Michael  Kelleher ;  she 
has  the  most  magnificent  figure,  walk,  and  throat  that 
I  have  ever  seen.  She  is  tall,  and  her  throat  is  exactly 
like  the  Rossetti  women's  throats,  long  and  round,  and 
like  cream.  She  would  make  a  splendid  model  for 
you.  I  had  seen  her  before,  and  proved  her  not 
deserving,"  (O  wise  young  judge  of  quite  nineteen  !) 
"  her  husband  being  a  caretaker  with  a  house  and 
4s.  a  week,  and  the  use  of  two  cows,  besides  a  daughter 
out  as  a  nursemaid.  She  really  did  not  exactly  beg, 
but  came  to  see  if  she  had  '  a  shance  of  the  sharity.' 
Her  eldest  boy,  aged  eleven,  had  fallen  off  the  cowhouse 
roof  on  to  a  cow's  back  (neither  hurt !),  and  we  gave 
her  EUiman,  which  cured  him.  But  the  day  I  was 
out.  Mother  saw  her,  and  although  I  had  given  full 
particulars  in  the  book  as  to  her  means " — (her 
princely  affluence  in  fact,  as  compared  with  her 
fellows) — "  she  gave  her  bread,  tea,  sugar,  and  meal, 
simply  because  she  had  a  baby  the  other  day  and  had 
a  child  with  a  bad  cold." 

Regarding  the  matter  dispassionately,  and  from  a 
distance,  I  should  say  that  either  affliction  amply 
justified  my  mother's  action,  but  jH.  did  not  then 
think  so. 

"  I  don't  think  this  will  happen  again,"  she  resumes, 
severely,  "  as  Mother  now  regrets  having  done  it. 
All  the  same,  I  had  the  greatest  difficulty  in  stopping 
her  from  clothing  an  entire  family  with  the  Dorcas 
things,  (which  are  lovely)  as  I  told  her,  there  are  not 
100  things,  and  there  are  over  200  people,  and  it 
seems  wicked  to  clothe  one  family  from  top  to  toe, 
so  I  prevailed.  E.  says  the  Balfour  Fund  will  help 
very  few  of  our  women."  (E.  was  my  cousin  Egerton 
Coghill,  who,  like  Robert  Martin,  had  given  his 
services  to  the  Government  as  a  distributor  of  the 
Fund,  and,  in  the  south  and  west  of  the  County  Cork, 


150  IRISH  MEMORIES 

had  some  of  the  worst   districts  in  Ireland  under  his 
jurisdiction.) 

"  No  one  with  less  than  a  quarter  of  an  acre  of 
land  is  entitled  to  get  help,"  my  sister's  letter  continues, 
"  as  they  can  get  Out-door  Relief  from  the  Rates,  and 
no  one  with  one  '  healthy  male  '  able  to  work  on  the 
Balfour  road  can  have  it,  in  fact,  only  those  with  sick 
husbands,  or  widows  with  farms,  are  eligible.  As  the 
fund  is  over  £44,000,  and  I  have  estimated  that  £150 
would  keep  our  Western  women  going  for  6  months, 
it  seems  to  me  very  unfair  to  send  the  quarter-acre 
people  on  to  the  Rates." 

It  may  be  gathered  from  this  that  the  difficulties  of 
administration  were  not  light ;  it  may  also,  perhaps, 
be  inferred  that  the  ancient  confidence  in  the  landlord 
class  (none  of  these  people  were  tenants  of  my  father's), 
which  modern  teaching  has  done  its  best  to  obliterate, 
was  not  entirely  misplaced.  I  do  not  claim  any 
exceptional  virtues  for  my  father  and  mother.  Their 
efforts  on  behalf  of  their  distressed  neighbours 
were  no  more  than  typical  of  what  their  class  was, 
and  is,  accustomed  to  consider  the  point  of  honour. 
It  remains  to  be  seen  if  the  substitutes  for  the  old 
order  will  adopt  and  continue  the  tradition  of 
"  Noblesse  oblige.'' 

I  have  heard  a  beggar-woman  haranguing  on  this 
topic. 

"  I  towld  them,"  she  cried,  with,  I  admit,  an  eye 
on  my  hand  as  it  sought  my  pocket,  *'  you  were  the 
owld  stock,  and  had  the  glance  of  the  Somervilles 
in  your  eye  I  God  be  with  the  owld  times  !  The 
Somervilles  and  the  Townshends  !  Them  was  the 
rale  genthry  !  Not  this  shipwrecked  crew  that's  in 
it  now  !  " 

I  may  as  well  acknowledge  at  once  that  Martin 


A    CASTLEHAVEN    WOMAN. 


THE   YEARS  OF  THE  LOCUST  151 

and  I  have  ever  adored  and  encouraged  beggars, 
however  venal,  and  have  seldom  lost  an  opportunity 
of  enjoying  their  conversation  ;  ancient  female  beggars 
especially,  although  I  have  met  many  very  attractive 
old  men.  At  my  mother's  Famine  Conversaziones 
many  beggar-women,  whose  names  were  on  no  list, 
would  join  themselves  to  the  company  of  the  ac- 
credited. 

"  I  have  no  certain  place  Achudth  !  "  (a  term  of 
endearment),  said  one  such  to  me,  "  I'm  between 
God  and  the  people." 

It  may  be  said  that  the  people,  however  deep 
their  own  want,  are  unfailing  in  charity  to  such  as 
she.  I  had,  for  a  long  time,  a  creature  on  my  visiting 
list,  or,  to  be  accurate,  I  was  on  hers,  who  was  known 
as  "  the  Womaneen."  As  far  as  I  know,  she  subsisted 
entirely  on  "  the  Neighbours,"  wandering  round  the 
country  from  house  to  house,  never  refused  a  night's 
lodging  and  the  "  wetting  of  her  mouth  o'  tay  "  ; 
generally  given  "  a  share  o'  praties  "  to  "  put  in  her 
bag  for  herself."  She  was  the  very  best  of  company, 
and  the  bestowal  of  that  super-coveted  boon,  an  old 
pair  of  boots,  had  power  to  evoke  a  gratitude  that 
shamed  its  recipient. 

"  Yes,  .Hanora,"  I  have  said,  "  I  beheve  I  have  a 
pair  to  give  you." 

On  this  the  "  Womaneen  "  opened  the  service  of 
thanksgiving  by  clasping  her  hands,  mutely  raising 
her  eyes  to  Heaven,  and  opening  and  shutting  her 
mouth  ;  this  to  show  that  emotion  had  rendered  her 
speechless.  She  next  seized  my  reluctant  hand,  and 
smacked  upon  it  kisses  of  a  breadth  and  quality  that 
suggested  the  enveloping  smack  of  a  pancake  when 
it  has  been  tossed  high  and  returns  to  its  pan.  Her 
speech  was  then  recovered. 

"  That  Good  Luck  may  attind  you  every  day  you 


152  IRISH  MEMORIES 

see  the  sun !  That  I  mightn't  leave  this  world  until 
I  see  you  well  marrid  !  "  A  pause,  and  a  luscious 
look  that  spoke  unutterable  things.  "  Ah  ha  !  I'll 
tell  the  Miss  Connors  that  ye  thrated  me  dacint !  " 
A  laugh,  triumphing  in  my  superiority  to  the  Misses 
Connor,  followed,  and  I  made  haste  to  produce  the 
boots. 

"  Oh  !  Oh  !  Oh  !  Me  heart  'd  open  !  Ye-me-lay, 
but  they'll  go  on  me  in  style  !  " 

Then,  in  a  darkling  whisper,  and  with  a  conspirator's 
eye  on  the  open  hall-door  :  "  Where  did  you  get  them, 
asthore  ?  Was  it  Mamma  gave  'em  t'ye  ?  "  (The 
implication  being  that  I,  for  love  of  the  "  Womaneen," 
must  have  stolen  them,  as  no  one  could  have  parted 
with  them  voluntarily.)  Then  returning  to  the  larger 
style.  "  That  God  Almighty  may  retch  out  the  two 
hands  to  ye,  my  Pearl  of  a  noble  lady  !  How  will  I 
return  thanks  to  ye  ?  That  the  great  God  may  lave 
me  alive  until  I'd  be  crawlin'  this-a-way  "—(an  inch 
by  inch  progress  is  pantomimed  with  two  gnarled 
and  ebony  fingers)—"  and  on  my  knees,  till  I'd  see 
the  gran'  wed  din'  of  my  fine  lady  that  gave  me  the 
paireen  o'  shluppers  !  " 

I  think  it  will  be  admitted  that  this  was  an  adequate 
return  for  value  received. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

THE    RESTORATION 

It  was  in  June,  1888,  that  Mrs.  Martin  became  the 
tenant  of  Ross  House  and  that  she  and  her  daughters 
returned  to  Galway,  sixteen  years,  to  the  very  month, 
since  they  had  left  it. 

It  would  demand  one  more  skilled  than  I  in  the 
unfathomable  depths  of  Irish  Land  Legislation  to 
attempt  to  set  forth  the  precise  status  of  Ross,  its 
house,  demesne,  and  estate,  at  this  time.  It  is  not, 
after  all,  a  matter  of  any  moment,  save  to  those 
concerned.  Mrs.  Martin  had  been  staying  in  Galway, 
and  had  paid  a  visit  to  Ross,  with  the  result  that  she 
decided  to  rent  the  house  and  gardens  from  the 
authorities  in  whose  jurisdiction  they  then  were,  and 
set  herself  to  "  build  the  walls  of  Jerusalem."  The 
point  which  may  be  dwelt  on  is  the  courage  that  was 
required  to  return  to  a  place  so  fraught  with  memories 
of  a  happiness  never  to  be  recaptured,  and  to  take 
up  life  again  among  people  in  whom,  as  was  only  too 
probable,  the  ancient  friendship  was  undermined  by 
years  of  absence,  misrepresentation,  and  misunder- 
standing. The  handling  of  the  estate  had  been  un- 
fortunate ;  the  house  and  demesne  had  been  either 
empty,  or  in  the  hands  of  strangers,  careless  and 
neglectful  of  all  things,  save  only  of  the  woodcock 
shooting,  and  the  rabbit-trapping.    When  Mrs.  Martin 


154  IRISH  MEMORIES 

proposed  to  become  a  tenant  in  her  old  home,  it  had 
been  empty  for  some  time,  and  had  suffered  the  usual 
indignities  at  the  hands  of  what  are  erroneously  known 
as  caretakers.  It  is  possible  that  caretakers  exist 
who  take  care,  and  take  nothing  else,  but  the  converse 
is  more  usual,  and  I  do  not  imagine  that  Ross  was 
any  exception  to  the  average  of  such  cases. 

The  motives  that  impelled  my  cousin  Nannie  to 
face  the  enormous  difficulties  involved  can,  however, 
be  understood,  and  that  Martin  should  have  sacrificed 
herself  to  the  Lares  and  Penates  of  Ross — Ross,  the 
love  of  which  was  rooted  in  her  from  her  cradle — 
was  no  more,  I  suppose,  than  was  to  be  expected  from 
her. 

From  her  mother  had  come  the  initiative,  but  it 
was  Martin  who  saved  Ross.  She  hurled  herself  into 
the  work  of  restoration  with  her  own  peculiar  blend 
of  enthusiasm  and  industry,  qualities  that,  in  my 
experience,  are  rarely  united.  Her  letters  became 
instantly  full  of  house-paintings,  house-cleanings, 
mendings,  repairs  of  every  kind ;  what  was  in  any 
degree  possible  she  did  with  her  own  hands,  what  was 
not,  she  supervised,  inventing,  instructing,  insisting 
on  the  work  being  done  right,  in  the  teeth  of  the 
invincible  determination  of  the  workmen  to  adhere 
to  the  tradition  of  the  elders,  and  do  it  wrong. 

Looking  back  on  it,  it  seems  something  of  a  waste 
to  have  set  a  razor  to  cut  down  trees,  and  the  work 
that  was  accomplished  by  "  Martin  Ross  '*  that  year 
was  small  indeed  as  compared  with  the  manifold 
activities  of  "  Miss  Wilet." 

There  was  everything  to  be  done,  inside  and  outside 
that  old  house,  and  no  one  to  do  it  but  one  fragile, 
indomitable  girl.  Ireland,  now,  is  full  of  such  places 
as  Ross  was  then.  "  Gentry-houses,"  places  that 
were  once  disseminators  of  light,  of  the  humanities  ; 


THE  RESTORATION  155 

centres    of  civilisation ;     places   to   which   the   poor 

people  rushed,  in  any  trouble,  as  to  Cities  of  Refuge. 

They  are  now  destroyed,  become  desolate,  derelict. 

To-day 

"  The  Lion  and  the  Lizard  keep 
The  Courts  where  Jamshyd  gloried  and  drank  deep  ; 
And  Bahram,  that  great  Hunter — the  Wild  Ass 
Stamps  o'er  his  Head,  but  cannot  break  his  Sleep." 

But  even  more  than  the  laying  waste  of  Ross  House 
and  gardens  I  believe  it  was  the  torture  of  the  thought 
that  the  Ross  people  might  feel  that  the  Martins  had 
failed  them,  and  that  the  "  Big  House  "  was  no  longer 
the  City  of  Refuge  for  its  dependants  in  the  day  of 
trouble,  that  chiefly  spurred  Martin  on,  in  her  long 
and  gallant  fight  with  every  sort  of  difficulty,  that 
summer,  when  she  and  her  mother  began  to  face  the 
music  again  at  Ross. 

In  that  music,  however,  there  was  an  undertone  of 
discord  that  threatened  for  a  while  to  wreck  all  the 
harmony.  There  are  a  few  words  that  Martin  had 
written,  in  continuation  of  the  account  of  her  brother 
Robert,  that  explain  the  matter  a  little,  and  I  will 
quote  them  here. 

"  The  white  chapel  that  overlooked  the  lake  and 
the  woods  of  Ross,  heard  much,  at  about  this  time 
{i.e.  the  later  years  of  the  'eighties),  that  was  not  of 
a  spiritual  tendency.  The  Land  League  had  been 
established  in  the  parish ;  the  branch  had  for  its 
head,  in  the  then  Parish  Priest,  an  Apostle  of  land 
agitation,  a  man  whose  power  of  bitter  animosity, 
legal  insight,  and  fighting  quality,  would  have  made 
his  name  in  another  profession.  He  made  his  mark 
in  his  own,  a  grievous  one  for  himself.  He  rose  up 
against  his  Bishop,  supported  by  the  great  majority 
of  his  parish,  and  received  the  reprimand  of  his  Church. 
He  went  with  his  case  to  Rome,  and  after  long  intrigue 


156  IRISH  MEMORIES 

there,  came  home,  a  beaten  man,  dispossessed  of  his 
parish,  and  was  received  in  Gal  way  with  a  brass 
band  and  a  procession,  the  latter  of  which  accompanied 
him,  brokenly,  but  with  persistence,  to  his  home,  a 
distance  of  about  fifteen  miles.  For  many  months 
afterwards  the  strange  and  not  unimpressive  spectacle 
presented  itself,  of  a  Roman  Catholic  Priest  defying 
his  Church,  and  holding,  by  some  potent  spell,  the 
support  of  the  majority  of  his  parish.  Sunday  after 
Sunday  two  currents  of  parishioners  set  in  different 
directions,  the  one  heading  to  the  lawful  Chapel 
on  the  hill  and  the  accredited  priest,  the  other  to 
the  green  and  white  '  Land  League  Hut,'  that  had 
been  built  with  money  that  Father  Z.  had  himself 
collected." 

Martin's  MS.  ceases  here.     I  may  add  to  it  a  little. 

I  went  to  Ross  not  long  after  Father  Z.'s  return 
from  Rome.  I  chanced  but  once  to  see  him,  but 
the  remembrance  of  that  fierce  and  pallid  face,  and  of 
the  hatred  in  it,  is  with  me  still.  He  is  dead,  and  I 
believe  that  his  teaching  died  with  him.  The  evil 
that  men  do  does  not  always  live  after  them.  The 
choice  of  his  successor  was  a  fortunate  one  for  the 
parish  of  Rosscahill.  Few  people  out  of  Ireland 
realise  how  much  depends  on  the  personality  of  the 
parish  priest.  Father  Z.  had  had  it  in  his  power  to 
shake  a  friendship  of  centuries,  but  it  was  deeply 
rooted,  he  could  do  no  more  than  shake  it.  His  suc- 
cessor had  other  views  of  his  duty  ;  in  him  the  people 
of  Rosscahill  and  the  House  of  Ross,  alike,  found  a 
friend,  unfailing  in  kindness  and  sympathy,  a  priest 
who  made  it  his  mission  to  bring  peace  to  his  parish, 
and  not  a  sword. 

No  one  was  more  sensible  of  this  friendship,  or  more 
grateful  for  it  than  Martin.  What  sustained  her  and 
made  the  sacrifice  of  time,  strength,  and  money  in 


THE  RESTORATION  157 

some  degree  worth  while,  during  that  hard,  pioneer 
year  at  Ross,  was  the  renewal  of  the  old  goodfellow- 
ship  and  intimacy  with  the  tenants.  Sixteen  years 
is  a  big  gap,  but  not  so  big  that  it  cannot  be  bridged. 
Even  had  the  gap  been  wider,  I  believe  Martin's 
slender  hand  would  have  reached  across  it.  As  she 
has  said  of  the  relation  between  the  Martins  and  their 
tenants — "  The  personal  element  was  always  warm 
in  it  .  .  .  the  hand  of  affection  held  it  together.  .  .  ."  ^ 
And  so  she  and  her  mother  proved  it.  It  was  the 
intense  interest  and  affection  which  Martin  had  in 
and  for  the  "  Ross  people  "  that  made  enjoyment 
march  with  what  she  believed  to  be  her  duty.  She 
had  a  gift  for  doing,  happily  and  beautifully,  always 
the  right  thing,  at  no  matter  what  cost  to  herself.  A 
very  unusual  gift,  and  one  of  more  value  to  others 
than  to  its  possessor.  One  remembers  the  Arab 
steed,  who  dies  at  a  gallop.  It  was  not  only  that 
she  was  faithful  and  unselfish,  but  she  so  applied  her 
intellect  to  obliterating  all  traces  of  her  fidelity  and 
her  unselfishness,  that  their  object  strode,  unconscious, 
into  the  soft  place  that  she  had  prepared,  and  realised 
nothing  of  the  self-sacrifice  that  had  gone  to  its  making. 
With  her,  it  was  impossible  to  say  which  was  the  more 
beautiful,  the  gentleness  of  heart,  or  the  brilliance  of 
intellect.     I  have  heard  that  among  the  poor  people 

1  Throughout  these  recollections  I  have,  as  far  as  has  been 
possible,  refrained  from  mentioning  those  who  are  still  trying  to 
make  the  best  of  a  moderate  kind  of  world.  (Far  be  it  from  me  to 
add  to  their  trials ! )  I  wish  to  say,  however,  in  connection  with 
the  subject  of  this  chapter,  that  in  the  struggle  for  life  which  so 
many  of  the  Irish  gentry  had  at  this  period  to  face,  Martin's  brothers 
and  sisters  were  no  less  ardently  engaged  than  were  their  mother  and 
their  youngest  sister.  In  London,  in  India,  in  Ceylon,  the  Martins 
were  doing  "  their  country's  work,"  as  Mr.  Kipling  has  sung,  and 
although  the  fates  at  first  prevented  their  taking  a  hand  in  person 
in  the  restoration  of  Ross,  it  is  well  known  that  "  The  Irish  over 
the  seas  "  are  not  in  the  habit  of  forgetting  "  their  own  people 
and  their  Father's  House." 


158  IRISH  MEMORIES 

they  called  her  The  Gentle  Lady ;    in  such  a  matter, 
poor  people  are  the  best  judges. 

In  her  first  letters  to  me  from  Ross,  the  place  it  held 
in  her  heart  is  shown,  and  there  is  shown  also  some  of 
the  difficulties,  the  heartrendings,  the  inconveniences, 
the  absurdities,  of  those  first  months  of  reclamation. 
No  one  but  Martin  herself  will  ever  know  what  courage 
and  capacity  were  required  to  cope  with  them.  She 
overcame  them  all.  Many  times  have  I  been  a  guest 
at  Ross,  and  more  wholly  enjoyable  visits  seldom  fall 
to  anyone's  lot.  But  the  comfort  and  restored  civilisa- 
tion of  the  old  house  had  cost  a  high  price. 

V.  F.  M.  to  E.  (E.  S.    (Ross,  July,  1888.) 

"  It  is  a  curious  thing  to  be  at  Ross.  But  it  does 
not  seem  as  if  we  were — not  yet.  It  takes  a  long  time 
to  patch  the  present  Ross,  and  the  one  I  remember, 
on  to  each  other.  It  is,  of  course,  smaller,  and  was, 
I  think,  disappointing,  but  it  is  deeply  interesting,  as 
you  can  imagine.  It  is  also  heartrending.  .  .  . 
Everything  looks  ragged  and  unkempt,  but  it  is  a 
fine  free  feeling  to  sit  up  in  this  window  and  look 
abroad.  There  are  plenty  of  trees  left,  and  there  is 
a  wonderful  Sleeping-Beauty-Palace  air  about 
everything,  wildness,  and  luxuriance,  and  solitude. 
As  to  being  lonely,  or  anything  like  it,  it  does  not 
enter  my  mind.  The  amount  of  work  to  be  done 
would  put  an  end  to  that  pretty  fast.  .  .  .  The 
garden  is,  as  the  people  told  me,  '  the  height  o' 
yerself  in  weeds,'  not  a  walk  visible.  The  hot-house, 
a  sloping  jungle  of  vines  run  wild  ;  the  melon  pit 
rears  with  great  care  a  grove  of  nettles,  the  stableyard 
is  a  meadow.  We  inhabit  five  rooms  in  the  house, 
the  drawing-room  having  been  made  (by  the  care- 
takers) a  kitchen.  I  could  laugh  and  I  could  cry 
when  I  think  of  it.     There  is  a  small  elderly  mare  here 


MARTIN    ROSS. 


ROSS   LAKE. 


THE  RESTORATION  159 

(belonging  to  the  estate)  whom  we  shall  use.  A 
charming  creature,  with  a  high  character  and  a  hollow 
back.  I  spent  this  morning  in  having  her  heels  and 
mane  and  ears  clipped,  and  it  took  two  men,  and 
myself,  to  hold  her  while  her  ears  were  being  done.  Car 
or  conveyance  we  have  none,  at  present,  but  we  have 
many  offers  of  cars.  I  drive  Mama  on  these  extra- 
ordinary farmers'  cars,  and  oh  !  could  you  but  see  the 
harness !  Mouldy  leather,  interludes  of  twine  in 
the  reins — terrific  !  '* 

There  follow  particulars  of  the  innumerable  repairs 
required  in  the  house. 

"  My  hand  is  shaking  from  working  on  the  avenue, 
I  mean  cutting  the  edges  of  it,  which  will  be  my  daily 
occupation  for  ever,  as  by  the  time  I  get  to  the  end, 
I  shall  have  to  begin  again,  and  both  sides  mean 
a  mile  and  a  quarter  to  keep  right.  .  .  .  The  tenants 
have  been  very  good  about  coming  and  working  here 
for  nothing,  except  their  dinners,  and  a  great  deal 
has  been  done  by  them.  It  is,  of  course,  gratifying, 
but,  in  a  way,  very  painful.  The  son  of  the  old 
carpenter  has  been  making  a  cupboard  for  me,  also 
all  for  love.  He  is  a  very  smart  person  and  has  been 
to  America,  but  he  is  still  the  same  '  Patcheen  Lee  ' — 
(I  have  altered  most  of  the  names  throughout — ^E.CE.S.) 
— "  whom  Charlie  and  I  used  to  beat  with  sticks  till 
he  was  *  near  dead,'  as  he  himself  says  proudly. 

**  We  have  many  visits  from  the  poor  people 
about,  and  the  same  compliments,  and  lamentations, 
and  finding  of  likenesses  goes  on.  This  takes  up  a  lot 
of  time,  and  exhausts  one's  powers  of  rejoinder. 
Added  to  this,  I  don't  know  yet  what  to  make  of  the 
people.  ...  Of  course  some  are  really  devoted, 
but  there  is  a  change,  and  I  can  feel  it.  I  wish  you 
had  seen  Paddy  Griffy,  a  very  active  little  old  man,  and 
a  beloved  of  mine,  when  he  came  down  on  Sunday 


160  IRISH  MEMORIES 

night  to  welcome  me.  After  the  usual  hand-kissings 
on  the  steps,  he  put  his  hands  over  his  head  and  stood 
in  the  doorway,  I  suppose  invoking  his  saint.  He 
then  rushed  into  the  hall. 

"  '  Dance  Paddy  !  '  screamed  Nurse  Barrett  (my 
foster-mother,  now  our  maid-of-all-work). 

"  And  he  did  dance,  and  awfully  well  too,  to  his 
own  singing.  Mama,  who  was  attired  in  a  flowing 
pink  dressing-gown,  and  a  black  hat  trimmed  with 
lilac,  became  suddenly  emulous,  and,  with  her  spade 
under  her  arm,  joined  in  the  jig.  This  lasted  for 
about  a  minute,  and  was  a  never-to-be-forgotten  sight. 
They  skipped  round  the  hall,  they  changed  sides, 
they  swept  up  to  each  other  and  back  again,  and 
finished  with  the  deepest  curtseys.  ...  I  went 
down  to  the  Gate-house  after  dinner,  and  there 
discoursed  Nurse  Griffy  for  a  long  time."  (At  Ross, 
and  probably  elsewhere  in  the  County  Galway,  the 
foster-mothers  of  "  the  Family  "  received  the  courtesy- 
title  of  "  Nurse,"  and  retained  it  for  the  rest  of  their 
lives.  I  have  been  at  Ross  when  the  three  principal 
domestics  were  all  ceremoniously  addressed  as 
"  Nurse,"  and  were  alluded  to,  collectively,  as  "  the 
Nursies."  After  all,  at  one  time  or  another,  there  were 
probably  twelve  or  fourteen  ladies  who  had  earned 
the  title.)  "  I  was  amused  by  a  little  discourse  about 
the  badness  of  the  shooting  of  the  tenants  here  last 
winter  "  {i.e.  the  Englishmen  who  took  the  shooting). 
"  Birds  were  fairly  plenty,  but  the  men  couldn't  hit 
them. 

"  '  'Tis  no  more  than  one  in  the  score  they  got !  ' 
says  Paddy  Griffy,  who  was  one  of  the  beaters,  with 
full-toned  contempt. 

"  '  Well,  maybe  they  done  their  besht,'  says  Kitty 
Hynes,  the  Gate-house  woman,  who  is  always  apolo- 
getic. 


THE  RESTORATION  161 

"  '  You  spoke  a  thrue  word,*  says  Paddy  Griffy, 
'  Faith,  they  done  their  besht,  Mrs.  Hynes  !  I  seen 
a  great  wisp  o'  shnipes  going  up  before  them,  and  the 
divil  a  one  in  it  that  didn't  go  from  them  !  But  you 
may  beheve  they  done  their  besht !  ' 

"  This  wants  the  indescribable  satisfaction  of  the 
speaker,  and  the  ecstasy  of  Kitty  Hynes  at  finding 
that  she  had  said  something  wonderful." 

This  is  a  part  of  her  first  letter.  To  those  unversed 
in  Ireland  and  her  ways,  the  latter  may  appear  in- 
credible, "  nay,  sometimes  even  terrible,"  as  Ruskin 
says  of  the  pine-trees  ;  but  as  I  think  that  enlighten- 
ment is  good  for  the  soul,  I  shall  continue  to  give  the 
history  of  the  renewal  of  Ross,  as  set  forth  in  Martin's 
letters,  and  these  may  present  to  the  English  reader 
(to  whom  I  would  specially  commend  the  incident  of 
the  children's  tea-party,  in  all  its  bearings)  a  new  and 
not  uninteresting  facet  in  the  social  life  of  the  most 
paradoxical  country  in  the  world. 

V.  F.  M.  to  E.  GE.  S.     (July  '88.    Ross.) 

"  I  had  not  heard  of  F.'s  death.  It  was  a  shock. 
He  seemed  a  thoroughly  alive  and  practical  person. 
I  don't  know  why  it  should  be  touching  that  he  should 
rave  of  his  hounds  to  the  end,  but  it  is.  I  suppose  any 
shred  of  the  ordinary  interests  is  precious  in  a  strange 
unnatural  thing,  like  dying.  I  think  often  of  a  thing 
that  a  countrywoman  here  said  to  me  the  other 
day,  apropos  of  her  sons  going  away  from  her  to 
America. 

"  '  But  what  use  is  it  to  cry,  even  if  ye  dhragged 
the  hair  out  o'  yer  head  I  Ye  might  as  well  be  singin' 
an'  dancin'.' 

"  She  was  crying  when  she  said  it,  and  was  a  wild- 
looking  creature  whom  you  would  like  to  paint,  and 

M 


162  IRISH  MEMORIES 

the  thing  altogether  stays  in  my  mind."  (And  now 
abides  in  the  mouth  of  Norry  the  Boat,  in  "  The  Real 
Charlotte.") 

"  Your  letter  spent  2  hours  after  its  arrival  in 
Nurse  Barrett's  pocket,  while  I  entertained  some 
thirty  of  the  children  about  here.  Tea,  and  bread  and 
jam,  and  barm  bracks  " — (a  sort  of  sweet  loaf,  made 
with  barm,  and  "  brack ^''^  i.e.  "  spotted,"  with 
currants)—"  in  the  lawn,  and  races  afterwards.  I 
had  a  very  wearying  day.  Cutting  up  food  in  the 
morning,  and  then  at  luncheon  I  received  a  great 
shock.  I  had  asked  a  girl  who  teaches  a  National 
School  to  bring  12  of  her  best  scholars,  and  besides 
these,  we  had  only  invited  about  half  a  dozen.  At 
luncheon  in  comes  the  teacher's  sister  to  say  that 
the  teacher  had  gone  to  Galway  '  on  business,'  and 
that  no  children  were  coming.  Boycotted,  I  thought 
at  once.  However  I  thought  I  would  make  an  effort, 
even  though  I  was  told  that  the  priest  must  have 
vetoed  the  whole  thing,  and  I  sent  a  whip  round 
to  the  near  villages,  which  are  loyal,  and  away  I  went 
myself  to  two  more.  I  never  had  such  a  facer  as 
thinking  the  children  were  to  be  kept  away,  and  with 
that  I  nearly  cried  while  I  was  pelting  over  the  fields. 
I  could  only  find  six  children,  of  whom  three  were 
too  young  to  come,  and  one  was  a  Land  Leaguer's. 
However  two  were  to  be  had,  and  I  pelted  home  again, 
very  anxious.  There  I  found  the  half  dozen  I  knew 
would  come,  and  divil  another.  I  waited,  and  after 
I  had  begun  to  feel  very  low,  I  saw  a  little  throng  on 
the  back  avenue,  poor  little  things,  with  their  best 
frocks,  such  as  they  were.  I  could  have  kissed  them, 
but  gave  them  tea  instead,  and  before  it  was  over 
another  bunch  of  children,  including  babies  in  arms, 
arrived,  and  there  was  great  hilarity.  I  never  shall 
understand  what  was  the  matter  about  the  teacher. 


THE  RESTORATION  IM 

She  is  a  nice  girl,  but  they  are  all  cowards,  and  she 
may  have  thought  she  was  running  a  risk.  She  was 
here  to-day,  with  a  present  of  eggs  and  white  cabbage, 
which  was  a  peace  offering,  of  course." 

In  those  bad  times  this  form  of  stabbing  friendship 
in  the  back  was  very  popular.  I  remember  how,  a 
few  years  earlier,  a  Christmas  feast  to  over  a  hundred 
National  School  children  was  effectively  boycotted, 
the  sole  reason  being  a  resolve  on  the  part  of  the 
ruling  powers  to  discourage  anything  so  unseasonable 
as  Peace  on  Earth  and  good  will  towards  ladies. 
These  dark  ages  are  now,  for  the  most  part,  past. 
Possibly,  some  day,  a  people  naturally  friendly 
and  kind-hearted  will  be  permitted  to  realise  that 
patriotism  means  loving  their  country,  instead  of 
hating  their  neighbours. 

At  Ross,  happily,  the  hostile  influence  had  but 
small  strength  for  evil.  Had  it  been  even  stronger, 
I  think  it  would  not  long  have  withstood  the  appeal 
that  was  made  to  the  chivalry  of  the  people  by  the 
gallant  fight  to  restore  the  old  ways,  the  old  friendship. 

Martin's  letter  continues  : 

"  The  presents  are  very  touching,  but  rather 
embarrassing,  and  last  week  there  was  a  great  flow  of 
them  ;  they  included  butter,  eggs,  a  chicken,  and  a 
bottle  of  port ;  all  from  different  tenants,  some  very 
poor.  An  experience  of  last  week  was  going  to  see  a 
party  of  sisters  who  are  tenants,  and  work  their  farm 
themselves.  In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  I  was  sitting 
'  back  in  the  room,'  with  the  sisterhood  exhausting 
themselves  in  praise  of  my  unparalleled  beauty,  and 
with  a  large  glass  of  potheen  before  me,  which  I  knew 
had  got  to  be  taken  somehow.  It  was  much  better 
than  I  expected,  and  I  got  through  a  respectable 
amount  of  it  before  handing  it  on  with  a  flourish  to 
one  of  my  hostesses,  which  was  looked  on  as  the  height 

M  2 


164  IRISH  MEMORIES 

of  politeness.  I  wish  I  could  remember  some  of  the 
criticisms  that  went  on  all  the  time. 

"  *  I  assure  you,  Miss  Wilet,  you  are  very  handsome, 
I  may  say  beautiful.'  '  I  often  read  of  beauty  in 
books,  but  indeed  we  never  seen  it  till  to-day.  Indeed 
you  are  a  perfect  creature.'  '  All  the  young  ladies  in 
Connemara  may  go  to  bed  now.  Sure  they're  nothing 
but  upstarts.'  '  And  it's  not  only  that  you're  lovely, 
but  so  commanding.  Indeed  you  have  an  imprettive 
look ! '  This,  I  believe,  means  imperative.  Then 
another  sister  took  up  the  wondrous  tale.  '  Sure  we're 
all  enamoured  by  you  !  ' 

"  This  and  much  more,  and  I  just  sat  and  laughed 
weakly  and  drunkenly.  Many  other  precious  things 
I  lost,  as  all  the  sisters  talked  together,  yea,  they 
answered  one  to  another.  Custom  has  taken  the  edge 
off  the  admiration  now,  I  am  grieved  to  say,  but  it 
still  exists,  and  the  friend  of  my  youth,  Patcheen 
Lee,  is  especially  dogmatic  in  pronouncing  upon  my 
loveliness.  I  am  afraid  all  these  flowers  of  speech 
will  have  faded  before  you  get  here ;  they  will  then 
begin  upon  you." 

Another  extract  from  the  letters  of  these  early  days 
I  will  give.  The  sister  whose  return  to  Ross  is  told 
of  was  Geraldine,  wife  of  Canon  Edward  Hewson ;  ^ 
it  is  her  account  of  Martin,  as  a  little  child,  that  is 
given  in  Chapter  VIII. 

"  Geraldine  felt  this  place  more  of  a  nightmare 
than  I  did.  The  old  days  were  more  present  with 
her,  naturally,  than  with  me.  I  pitied  her  when  she 
came  up  the  steps.  She  couldn't  say  a  word  for  a 
long  time.  There  was  a  bonfire  at  the  gate  in  her 
honour  in  the  evening,  built  just  as  we  described  it 
1  Mrs.  Hewson  died  July,  1917. 


THE  RESTORATION  166 

in  the  Shocker,  a  heap  of  turf,  glowing  all  through, 
and  sticks  at  the  top.  Poor  Geraldine  was  so  tired  I 
had  to  drive  her  down  to  it,  but  she  went  very  gallant 
and  remembered  the  people  very  well.  There  was 
little  cheering  or  demonstrativeness,  but  there  was  a 
great  deal  of  conversation  and  some  slight  and 
inevitable  subsequent  refreshment  in  the  form  of 
porter. 

"  I  can  hardly  tell  you  what  it  felt  like  to  see  the 
bonfire  blazing  there,  just  as  it  used  to  in  my  father's 
time,  when  he  and  the  boys  and  all  of  us  used  to  come 
down  when  someone  was  being  welcomed  home,  and 
it  was  all  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world.  It 
was  very  different  to  see  Geraldine  walk  in  front  of 
us  through  the  wide  open  gates,  between  the  tall 
pillars,  with  her  white  face  and  her  black  clothes. 
Thady  Connor,  the  old  steward,  met  her  at  the  gate, 
and  not  in  any  '  Royal  enclosure  '  could  be  surpassed 
the  way  he  took  off  his  hat,  and  came  silently  forward 
to  her,  while  everyone  else  kept  back,  in  dead  silence 
too.  Of  course  they  had  all  known  her  well.  What 
with  that  glare  of  the  bonfire,  and  the  lit  circle  of 
faces,  and  the  welcome  killed  with  memories  for 
her,  I  wonder  how  she  stood  it.  It  was  the  attempt 
at  the  old  times  that  was  painful  and  wretched,  at 
least  I  thought  it  so.  Edward  was  wonderful,  in  a 
trying  position.  In  about  two  minutes  he  was  holding 
a  group  of  men  in  deep  converse  without  any  apparent 
effort,  and  he  was  much  approved  of. 

"  '  A  fine  respectable  gentleman  ' — '  The  tallest  man 
on  the  property  '—such  were  the  comments." 

There  are  two  poems  that  were  written  many  years 
ago,  by  one  of  the  tenants,  one  Jimmy  X.,  a  noted 
poet,  in  praise  of  the  Martins  and  of  Ross,  and  myste- 
riously blended  with   these   themes  is  a  eulogy  of  a 


166  IRISH  MEMORIES 

certain  musician,  who  was  also  a  tenant.  The  first  few 
verses  were  dictated  to  Martin,  I  know  not  by  whom  ; 
the  last  three  were  written  for  her  by  the  poet  himself ; 
his  spelling  lends  a  subtle  charm.  To  read  it,  giving 
the  lines  their  due  poise  and  balance,  demands  skill, 
the  poem  being  of  the  modern  mode,  metrical,  but 
rhymeless.  There  is  a  tune  appertaining  to  it  which 
offers  some  assistance  in  the  matter  of  stress,  but  it 
must  here  be  divorced  from  its  words  ;  since,  however, 
it  is  a  tune  of  maddening  and  haunting  incomplete- 
ness, a  tune  that  has  "  no  earthly  close,"  one  of  those 
tunes,  in  fact,  that  are  of  the  nature  of  a  possession 
(in  an  evil  and  spiritual  sense),  this  need  not  be 
regretted. 

ROSS. 

It  is  well  known  through  Ireland 
That  Ross  it  is  a  fine  place 
The  healthiest  in  climate 
That  ever  yet  was  known. 

When  you  get  up  in  the  morning 
Ye'U  hear  the  thrishes  warbling 
The  cuckoo  playing  most  charming 
Which  echoes  the  place. 

The  birds  they  join  in  chorus 
To  hum  their  notes  melodious 
The  bees  are  humming  music 
All  over  the  demesne. 

The  place  it  being  so  holy 
It  is  there  they  live  in  glory. 
Honey  is  flowing 
And  rolling  there  in  sthrames. 

There  follows  a  panegyric  of  "  Robert  Martin  Esqur,'* 
the  Bard  lamenting  his  inability  to  "  tell  the  lovely 
fatures  of  the  noble  gentleman." 


TEE  RESTORATION  167 

•'  Indeed,"  he  continues,  "  it  sprung  through  nature 
For  this  gentleman  being  famous, 
The  Martins  were  the  bravest 
That  ever  were  before. 

"  With  Colonels  and  good  Majors 
Who  fought  with  many  nations, 
I'm  sure  twas  them  that  gained  it 
On  the  plains  of  Waterloo." 

Thus  far  the  dictation  ;    the  following  four  verses 
are  as  they  came  from  the  hand  of  their  maker. 

A''song  composed  for  Robirt  Martin  Esqur  and  one  of  his  tinants 


1st 


varce 


Its  now  we  have  a  tradesman 

The  best  in  any  nation. 

He  never  met  his  eaquils,  he  went  to  tullamore. 

He  played  in  Munstereven 

The  tune  of  Nora  Chrena 

But  Garryown  delighted  the  natives  of  the  town. 

2nd 
He  can  write  music 
Play  it  and  peruse  it 

A  man  in  deep  concumption  from  death  he  revive 
But  from  the  first  creation 
There  was  never  yet  his  eaquels 
So  clever  and  ingenious  with  honour  and  renown. 

3rd  virce 

Patrick  he  resayved  them 

So  deacent  and  so  plesant 

He  is  as  nice  a  man  in  features  as  I  ever  saw  before 

When  they  sat  to  his  table  with  turkeys  and  bacon 

With  Brandy  and  good  ale  he  would  suplie  as  many  more. 

He  got  aninvetation  to  Dublin  with  they  ladies 

They  brought  him  in  their  pheatons  he  was  playing  as  they  were 

going 
He  is  the  best  fluit  player  from  Cliften  to  Glasnevan 
They  thought  he  was  inchanted  his  music  was  so  neat. 


168  IRISH  MEMORIES 

4th  virce 
His  fluit  is  above  mention 
It  is  the  best  youtencal  {utensil) 
That  ever  yet  was  mentioned  sunce  the  race  of  Man 
He  got  it  by  great  intrest  as  a  presant  from  the  gentry 
It  was  sent  to  him  by  finvarra  the  rular  of  Nockma. 

There  are  many  more  varces  (or  virces)  in  which  the 
glories  of  Ross,  of  "  Robirt "  Martin,  and  of  his 
"  tinant,"  are  hymned  with  equal  ardour,  but  I  think 
these  samples  suffice. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

RICKEEN 

The  journey  from  Brisbane  to  Ross  was  first  made 
by  me  in  February,  1889.  As  the  conventional  crow 
flies,  or  as,  on  the  map,  the  direct  line  is  drawn,  the 
distance  is  no  more  than  a  hundred  miles,  but  by 
the  time  you  have  steered  east  to  Cork,  and  north- 
west to  Limerick,  and  north  to  Ennis,  and  to  Athenry, 
and  to  Galway,  with  prolonged  changes  (and  always 
for  the  worse),  at  each  of  these  places,  you  begin  to 
realise  the  greatness  of  Ireland,  and  to  regard  with 
awe  the  independent  attitude  of  mind  of  her  railway 
companies.  It  would  indeed  seem  that  the  Sinn  Fein 
movement,  *'  Ourselves  Alone,"  might  have  been 
conceived  and  brought  forth  by  any  one  of  the  lines 
involved  in  the  trajet  from  Cork  to  Galway.  I  cannot 
say  what  are  the  conditions  now,  but  there  was  a 
time  when  each  connecting  link  was  separated  by  an 
interval  of  just  as  many  minutes  as  enabled  the  last 
shriek  of  the  train  as  it  left  the  station  to  madden  the 
ear  of  the  traveller.  Once  I  have  been  spared  this 
trial ;  it  was  at  Limerick  ;  a  member  of  the  staff  was 
starting  with  his  bride  on  their  honeymoon.  The 
station  palpitated ;  there  were  white  satin  ribbons 
on  the  engine,  a  hoar-frost  of  rice  on  the  platform ; 
there  was  also  a  prolonged  and  sympathetic  delay, 
while  the  bride  kissed  the  remainder  of  the  staff. 


170  IRISH  MEMORIES 

And  thus,  with  the  aid  of  a  fleet  porter,  and  by 
travelHng  in  "  fateful  Love's  high  fellowship,"  I 
succeeded  in  shortening  my  journey  by  some  two 
hours,  and  in  taking  unawares  the  train  at  "  The 
Junction  "  (which,  as  everyone  in  Munster  knows,  is 
the  Limerick  Junction). 

February  is  a  bad  month  for  the  West  of  Ireland, 
but  there  are  places,  like  people,  that  rely  on  features 
and  are  independent  of  complexion.  Ross  was  grey 
and  cold,  windy,  rainy,  and  snowy,  but  its  beauty 
did  not  fail.  Martin  and  I  heeded  the  occasional 
ill-temper  of  the  weather  as  little  as  two  of  the  wild 
duck  whom  we  so  assiduously  strove  to  shoot.  We 
had  been  lent  a  boat  and  a  gun,  and  there  are  not  many 
pleasanter  things  to  do  in  a  still  February  twilight 
than  to  paddle  quietly  along  the  winding  waterways 
among  the  tall  pale  reeds  of  Ross  Lake ;  in  the 
thrilling  solitude  and  secrecy  of  those  dark  and  polished 
paths  anything  may  be  expected,  from  a  troop  of  wild 
swans,  or  the  kraken,  down  to  the  alternative  thrill 
of  the  splashing,  swishing  burst  upwards  of  the  duck, 
as  the  boat  invades  their  hidden  haven.  We  walked 
enormously ;  visiting  the  people  in  the  little  villages 
on  the  estate,  making  exciting  and  precarious  short 
cuts  across  bogs  ;  getting  "  bushed  "  in  those  strange 
wildernesses,  where  hazel  and  blackthorn  scrub  has 
squeezed  up  between  the  thick-sown  limestone  boulders 
of  West  Galway,  and  a  combination  has  resulted  that 
makes  as  impenetrable  a  barrier  as  can  well  be 
imagined.  We  wandered  in  the  lovely  Wood  of 
Annagh,  lovely  always,  but  loveliest  as  I  saw  it  later 
on,  in  April,  when  primroses,  like  faint  sunlight, 
illumined  every  glade  and  filled  the  wood  with  airs  of 
Paradise.  We  explored  the  inmost  recesses  of  TuUy 
Wood,  which  is  a  place  of  mystery,  with  a  prehistoric 
baptismal  *'  buUan  "  stone,  and  chapel,  in  its  depths. 


RICKEEN  171 

There  are  quagmires  in  TuUy,  "  shwally-holes  "  hidden 
in  sedge  among  the  dark  fir-trees,  and  somewhere, 
deep  in  it,  you  may  come  on  a  tiny  lake  among  the 
big,  wildly-scattered  pine-stems,  and  a  view  between 
them  over  red  and  brown  bog  to  the  pale,  windy 
mountains  of  Connemara. 

I  was  having  a  holiday  from  writing,  and  was  paint- 
ing any  model,  old  or  young,  that  I  could  suborn  to 
my  use.  We  searched  the  National  Schools  for  red- 
haired  children,  for  whom  I  had  a  special  craving, 
and,  after  considerable  search,  were  directed  to  ask 
in  Doone  for  the  house  of  one  Kennealy,  which 
harboured  "  a  Twin,"  "  a  foxy  Twin  "  ;  and  there 
found  "  The  Twin,"  i.e.  two  little  girls  of  surpassing 
ugliness,  but  with  hair  of  such  burnished  copper  as 
is  inevitably  described  by  the  phrase  "  such  as  Titian 
would  have  loved  to  paint." 

Tliere  are  few  evasions  of  a  difficulty  more  bromidic 
and  more  unwarrantable.  "  A  sunset  such  as  Turner 
would  have  loved  to  paint."  "  A  complexion  such 
as  Sir  Joshua  would  have  loved  to  paint."  The 
formula  is  invariable.  It  is  difficult  to  decide  whether 
the  stricken  incapacity  of  description,  or  the  presump- 
tion of  a  layman  in  selecting  for  a  painter  his  subject, 
is  the  more  offensive. 

"Oh,  what  a  handsome  sunset  you  have  !  " 

I  have  heard  at  a  garden  party  a  lady  thus  compli- 
ment the  proprietor  of  the  decoration. 

"  I  know,"  she  turned  to  me,  "  that  you're  delighting 
in  it !  What  a  pity  you  haven't  your  easel  with 
you  !  "  (Nothing  else,  presumably,  was  required.) 
The  attitude  of  mind  is  the  same,  but  there  is  much 
in  the  way  a  thing  is  said. 

A  special  joy  was  imparted  to  Martin's  and  my 
wanderings  about  Ross  by  the  presence  of  the  Puppet. 
I  had  brought  him  to  Paris  (and  Martin  and  I  had 


172  IRISH  MEMORIES 

together  smuggled  him  home  under  the  very  nose  of 
the  Douane) ;  he  had  accompanied  me  on  a  yachting 
excursion  (in  the  course  of  which  I  walked  on  deck 
in  my  sleep,  and  very  nearly  walked  overboard,  the 
Puppet  following  me  faithfully ;  in  which  case  we 
should  neither  of  us  have  ever  been  heard  of  again, 
as  the  tide-race  in  Youghal  Harbour  is  no  place  for 
a  bad  swimmer).  He  had  paid  many  and  various 
visits  with  me,  and  had  passed  from  a  luxury  into  a 
necessity.  Naturally  he  came  with  me  to  Ross.  He 
was  a  very  small  fox  terrier,  rather  fast  in  manner, 
but  engaging ;  with  a  heart  framed  equally  for  love 
or  war,  and  a  snub  nose.  His  official  name  was  Patsey  ; 
a  stupid  name,  I  admit,  and  conventional  to  exhaus- 
tion, but  of  a  simplicity  that  popularised  him.  There 
are  a  few  such  names,  for  humans  as  for  dogs.  I 
need  give  but  one  instance.  Bill.  (I  do  not  refer  to 
the  Bills  of  humbler  life,  though  I  am  not  sure  that 
the  rule  does  not  apply  there  also.)  The  man  who 
hails  his  friend  as  "  Bill "  feels  himself,  in  so  doing,  a 
humourist,  which  naturally  endears  Bill  to  him. 

It  was  Fanny  Currey,  by  the  way,  who  called 
Patsey  "  The  Puppet "  (as  a  variant  of  "  The  Puppy  "). 
There  are  not  many  people  with  any  pretensions  to 
light  and  leading  who  did  not  know  Miss  Fanny 
Currey  of  Lismore.  She  is  dead  now,  and  Ireland  is 
a  poorer  place  for  her  loss.  I  will  not  now  try  to  speak 
of  her  brilliance  and  versatility.  She  was,  among  her 
many  gifts,  a  profound  and  learned  dog-owner,  and 
though  her  taste  had  been  somewhat  perverted  by 
dachshunds  (which  can  degenerate  into  a  very  lowering 
habit),  it  was  an  honour  to  any  little  dog  to  be  noticed 
by  her. 

The  Puppet  had  various  accomplishments.  He 
wept  when  rebuked,  and,  sitting  up  penitentially, 
real  tears  would  course  one  another  down  his  brief 


RICKEEN  178 

and  innocent  nose.  He  could  walk  on  his  forelegs 
only ;  he  could  jump  bog-drains  that  would  daunt  a 
foxhound  ;  even  the  tall  single-stone  walls  of  Galway, 
that  crumble  at  a  touch,  could  not  stop  him.  The 
carpenter  at  Ross  was  so  moved  by  his  phenomenal 
activity  that  he  challenged  me  to  "  lep  my  dog  agin 
his."  His  dog,  a  collie,  was  defeated,  and  the  carpenter 
said,  generously,  that  he  "  gave  it  in  to  the  Puppet 
that  he  was  dam'  wise." 

Many  were  the  vicissitudes  through  which  that 
little  dog  came  safely.  A  mad  dog  in  Castle  Haven 
missed  him  by  a  hair's  breadth.  (The  hair,  one 
supposes,  of  the  dog  that  did  not  bite  him.)  Distemper 
fits  in  Paris  were  only  just  mastered.  (It  is  worthy 
of  note  that  the  cure  was  effected  by  strong  coffee, 
prescribed  by  a  noted  vet.  of  the  Quartier  Latin.) 
In  battles  often,  in  perils  of  the  sea  ;  nor  shall  I  soon 
forget  a  critical  time  in  infancy,  when,  as  my  diary 
sourly  relates,  "  Jack  and  Hugh  "  (two  small  and 
savage  brothers)  "  rushed  to  me  in  state  of  frantic 
morbid  delight,  to  tell  me  that  the  puppy  had  thrown 
up  a  huge  worm,  and  was  dying." 

And  all  these  troubles  he  survived  only  to  die  of 
poison  at  Ross.  But  this  came  later,  during  my 
second  visit,  and  during  that  first  and  happy  time  the 
Puppet  and  Martin  and  I  enjoyed  ourselves  without 
let  or  hindrance. 

It  is  long  now  since  I  have  been  in  Galway,  and  I 
know  that  many  of  the  poor  people  with  whom  Martin 
and  I  used  to  talk,  endlessly,  and  always,  for  us, 
interestingly,  have  gone  over  to  that  other  world 
where  she  now  is.  Of  them  all,  I  think  the  one  most 
beloved  by  her  was  the  little  man  of  whom  she  dis- 
coursed in  one  of  the  chapters  of  "  Some  Irish  Yester- 
days "  as  "  Rickeen."  This  was  not  his  name,  but  it 
will  serve.     Rickeen  was  of  the  inmost  and  straitest 


174  IRISH  MEMORIES 

sect  of  the  Ross  tenants.  His  farm,  which  was  a 
very  small  one,  was,  I  imagine,  run  by  his  wife  and 
children ;  he,  being  rightly  convinced  that  Ross 
House  and  all  appertaining  to  it  would  fall  in  ruin 
without  his  constant  attention,  spent  his  life  "  about 
the  place,"  in  the  stables,  the  garden,  the  house ; 
and  wherever  he  was,  he  was  talking,  and  that,  usually 
and  preferably,  to  "  Miss  Wilet." 

The  adoration  that  was  given  to  her  by  all  the  people 
found  its  highest  expression  in  Rickeen.  She  was  his 
religion,  the  visible  saint  whom  he  worshipped,  he 
gave  her  his  supreme  confidence.  I  believe  he  spoke 
the  truth  to  her.     More  can  hardly  be  said. 

Rickeen  was  a  small,  dark  fellow,  with  black 
whiskers,  and  a  pale,  sharp-featured  face.  We  used 
to  think  that  he  was  like  a  London  clergyman,  rather 
old-fashioned,  yet  broad  in  his  views.  He  had  a 
passion  for  horses  and  dogs,  and  was  unlike  most  of 
his  fellows  in  a  certain  poetic  regard  for  such  frivolous 
by-products  of  nature  as  flowers  and  birds.  I  can  see 
Rickeen  on  a  fair  May  morning  pulling  off  his  black 
slouch  hat  to  Martin  and  me,  with  the  shine  of  the 
sun  on  his  high  forehead,  on  which  rings  of  sparse 
black  hair  straggled,  his  dark  eyes  beaming,  and  I 
can  hear  his  soft-tuned  Galway  voice  saying : 

"  Well,  glory  be  to  God,  Miss  Wilet,  this  is  a  grand 
day  !  And  great  growth  entirely  in  the  weather ! 
Faith,  I  didn't  think  to  see  it  so  good  at  all  to-day, 
there  was  two  o'  thim  planets  close  afther  the  moon 
last  night !  " 

And  he  would  probably  go  on  to  tell  us  of  the 
garden  o'  praties  he  had,  and  the  "  bumbles  and  the 
blozzums  they  had  on  them.  Faith,  I'd  rather  be 
lookin'  at  them  than  ateing  me  dinner  !  "  (The  term 
"  bumbles  "  referred,  we  gathered,  to  buds.) 

Martin    would    contentedly    spend    a    morning    in 


RICKEEN  175 

scraping  paths  and  raking  gravel  with  Rickeen,  and, 
having  a  marvellous  gift  of  memory,  would  justify 
herself  of  her  idleness  by  repeating  to  me,  at  length, 
one  of  his  recitals.  Some  of  these,  as  will  presently 
be  discovered,  she  has  written  down,  but  the  written 
word  is  a  poor  thing.  "  When  the  lamp  is  shattered, 
the  light  in  the  dust  lies  dead."  For  anyone  who  knew 
the  perfection  of  Martin's  rendering  of  the  tones  of 
West  Galway,  of  the  gestures,  the  pauses,  that  give 
the  life  of  a  story,  the  words  lying  dead  on  the  page 
are  only  a  pain.  Perhaps,  some  day,  portable  and 
bindable  phonography  will  be  as  much  part  of  a 
book  as  its  pictures  are. 

Phonetic  spelling  in  matters  of  dialect  is  a  delusive 
thing,  to  be  used  with  the  utmost  restraint.  It  is 
superfluous  for  those  who  know,  boring  for  tljose  who 
do  not.  Of  what  avail  is  spelling  when  confronted 
with  the  problem  of  indicating  the  pronunciation  of, 
for  example,  "  Papa  "  ;  the  slurring  and  softening 
of  the  consonant,  the  flattening  of  the  vowel  sound 
— how  can  these  be  even  indicated  ?  And,  spelling 
or  no,  can  any  tongue,  save  an  Irish  one,  pronounce 
the  words  "  being "  and  "  ideal,"  as  though  they 
owned  but  one  syllable  ?  Long  ago  Martin  and  I 
debated  the  'point,  and  the  conclusion  that  we  then 
arrived  at  was  that  the  root  of  the  matter  in  questions 
of  dialect  was  in  the  idiomatic  phrase  and  the  mental 
attitude.  The  doctrine  of  "  Alice's  "  friend,  the 
Duchess,  still  seems  to  me  the  only  safe  guide.  "  Take 
care  of  the  sense,  and  the  sounds  will  take  care  of 
themselves." 

There  was  a  sunny  spring  afternoon  at  Ross,  and 
Martin  and  Rickeen  and  I  and  the  Puppet  went  forth 
together  to  erect  a  wall  of  "  scraws,"  i.e.  sods,  round 
the  tennis  ground.  As  soon  as  there  was  a  sufficient 
elevation  for  the  purpose,  we  seated  ourselves  on  the 


176  IRISH  MEMORIES 

scraws,  and  the  business  of  conversation  with  Rickeen, 
that  had,  in  some  degree,  been  interfered  with  by  his 
labours  in  scraw-cutting  and  hfting,  was  given  full 
scope.  The  Puppet  was  a  little  below  us,  hunting 
young  rabbits  in  the  dead  bracken.  At  intervals  we 
could  see  him,  proceeding  in  grasshopper  springs 
through  the  bracken  (which  is  the  correct  way  to 
draw  heavy  covert,  as  all  truly  sporting  little  dogs 
know),  throughout  we  could  hear  him.  Rooks  in 
the  tall  elms  behind  the  stables,  feeding  their  young 
ones,  made  a  pleasing  undercurrent  of  accompaniment 
to  the  Puppet's  soprano  solo.  There  was  a  bloom  of 
green  over  the  larches ;  scraps  of  silver  glinting 
between  the  tree  stems  represented  the  lake.  The 
languor  of  spring  was  in  the  air,  and  it  seemed  exercise 
enough  to  watch  Rickeen's  wondrous  deftness  in 
marking,  cutting,  and  lifting  the  scraws  on  the  blade 
of  his  narrow  spade,  and  tossing  them  accurately  on 
to  their  appointed  spot  on  the  rising  wall. 

Martin  had  a  Maltese  charm  against  the  "  Mai 
Occhio  "  ;  a  curious  silver  thing,  whose  design  included 
a  branch  of  the  Tree  of  Life,  and  clenched  fists,  and  a 
crescent  moon,  and  other  symbolisms.  This,  and  its 
uses,  she  expounded  to  Rickeen,  and  he,  in  his  turn, 
offered  us  his  experience  of  the  Evil  Eye,  and  of 
suitable  precautions  against  it. 

"  Look  now.  Miss  Wilet,  if  a  pairson  'd  say  '  that's 
a  fine  gerr'l,'  or  '  a  fine  cow,'  or  the  like  o'  that,  and 
wouldn't  say  '  God  bless  him  I '  that's  what  we'd 
call  *  Dhroch  Hool.'  ^  That's  the  Bad  Eye.  Maybe, 
then,  the  one  he  didn't  say  '  God  bless  them  '  to  would 
fall  back,  or  dhrop  down,  or  the  like  o'  that ;  and 
then,  supposin'  a  pairson  'd  folly  the  one  that  gave 
the  Bad  Eye,  and  to  bring  him  back,  and  then  if  that 
one  'd  bate  three  spits  down  on  the  one  that  was  lyin' 

1  I  think  it  best  to  spell  all  the  Irish  phrases  phonetically. 


RICKEEN  177 

sthritched,  and  to  say  '  God  bless  him,'  he'd  be  all 
right." 

Strange  how  wide  is  the  belief  in  the  protective 
power  of  this  simple  provision  of  Nature.  From  the 
llama  to  the  cat,  it  is  relied  on,  and  by  the  cat,  no 
doubt,  it  was  suggested  to  the  human  being  as  a 
means  of  defiance  and  frustration.  There  was  a 
beggar-woman  who,  as  my  mother  has  told  me,  did 
not  fail  on  the  occasion  of  any  of  our  christenings  to 
bestow  upon  the  infant  an  amulet  of  this  nature. 
She  had  a  magnificent  oath,  reserved,  I  imagine,  for 
great  occasions. 

"  By  the  Life  of  Pharaoh  !  "  she  would  say,  advanc- 
ing upon  the  baby,  "  I  pray  that  all  bad  luck  may  be 
beyant  ye,  and  that  my  luck  may  be  in  your  road 
before  ye  !  " 

The  amulet  would  then  be  administered. 

Martin  and  Rickeen  and  I  discoursed,  I  remember, 
for  some  time  upon  these  subjects.  The  mysterious 
pack  of  white  hounds  who  hunt  the  woods  of  Ross, 
whose  music  has  been  heard  more  than  once,  and  the 
sight  of  which  has  been  vouchsafed  to  some  few 
favoured  ones,  was  touched  on,  and  Martin  told  of 
an  Appearance  that  had  come  to  her  and  some  of  her 
brothers  and  sisters,  one  dusky  evening,  in  the  Ross 
avenue.  Something  that  was  first  like  a  woman 
walking  quickly  towards  them,  and  then  rose,  vast 
and  toppling,  like  a  high  load  of  hay,  and  then  sank 
down  into  nothingness. 

"  Ah  sure,  the  Avenue  1  "  said  Rickeen,  as  one 
that  sets  aside  the  thing  that  is  obvious.  "  No  one 
wouldn't  know  what  'd  be  in  it.  There  was  one  that 
seen  fairies  as  thick  as  grass  in  it,  and  they  havin' 
red  caps  on  them  !  " 

He  turned  from  us,  and  fell  to  outlining  the  scraws 
that  he  was  going  to  cut.      We  watched  him  for  a 

N 

i 


178  IRISH  MEMORIES 

space,  while  the  afternoon  shadow  of  the  house 
crept  nearer  to  us  down  the  slope,  and  Martin  began 
to  talk  of  the  coach  that  drives  to  Ross  when  the  head 
of  the  house  dies.  At  the  death  of  her  grandfather  she 
had  been  too  little  to  comprehend  such  things. 

"  I  can  only  remember  '  The  Old  Governor '  in 
snatches,"  she  said. 

From  across  the  lake  the  rattle  of  the  mail  car  on 
the  Galway  road  came,  faintly,  and  mysterious  enough 
to  have  posed  as  the  sound  of  the  ghostly  coach. 
The  staccato  hunting  yelps  of  the  Puppet  had  died 
down,  and  from  among  the  boughs  of  a  small  beech 
tree,  a  little  hapless  dwarf  of  a  tree,  twisted  by  a 
hundred  thwarted  intentions,  a  thrush  flung  a  spray 
of  notes  into  the  air,  bright  and  sudden  as  an  April 
shower.     Rickeen  paused. 

"  Ye'd  like  to  be  leshnin'  to  the  birds  screechin'," 
he  remarked  appreciatively  ;  "  But  now.  Miss  Wilet, 
as  for  the  coach,  I  dunno.  There's  quare  things  goin'  ; 
ye  couldn't  hardly  say  what  harm  'd  be  in  them,  only 
ye'd  friken  when  ye  meet  them."  He  gave  his  white 
flannel  bauneen,  which  is  a  loose  coat,  an  extra  twist, 
stuffing  the  corners  that  he  had  twisted  together 
inside  the  band  of  his  trousers,  and  entered  upon  his 
narration. 

"  I  remember  well  the  time  the  Owld  Governor, 
that's  yer  grandfather,  died.  Your  father  was  back 
in  Swineford,  in  the  County  Mayo,  the  same  time, 
and  the  Misthress  sent  for  me  and  she  give  me  a  letther 
for  him.  *  Take  the  steamer  to  Cong,'  says  she,  '  and 
dhrive  then,  and  don't  rest  till  ye'll  find  him.' 

"  But  sure  Louisa  Laffey,  that  was  at  the  Gate-house 
that  time,  she  says  to  me,  '  Do  not,'  says  she,  '  take 
the  steamer  at  all,'  says  she.  '  Go  across  the  ferry," 
says  she,  '  an'  dhrive  to  Headford  and  ye'll  get  another 
car  there.' 

"  I  was  a  big  lump  of  a  boy  that  time,  twenty  years 


RICKEEN  179 

an'  more  maybe,  and  faith,  I  didn't  let  on,  but  God 
knows  I  was  afraid  goin'  in  it.  'Twas  night  on  me 
when  I  got  to  Headford,  and  when  I  wint  to  th'  hotel 
that  was  in  it,  faith  sorra  car  was  before  me ;  but  the 
gerr'l  that  was  mindin'  th'  hotel  says,  '  D'ye  see  the 
house  over  with  the  light  in  it  ?  '  'I  do,'  says  I. 
'  Maybe  ye'd  get  a  ear  in  it,'  says  she.  Faith,  the  man 
that  was  there  ruz  out  of  his  bed  to  come  with  me  !  " 

A  pause,  to  permit  us  to  recognise  the  devotion  of 
the  man. 

"  We  went  dhrivin'  then,"  resumed  Rickeen,  with 
a  spacious  gesture,  "  dhrivin'  always,  and  it  deep  in  the 
night,  and  we  gettin'  on  till  it  was  near  Claremorris, 
back  in  the  County  Mayo.  Well,  there  was  a  hill 
there,  and  a  big  wood,  and  when  we  come  there  was 
a  river,  and  it  up  with  the  road,  and  what  'd  rise  out 
of  it  only  two  wild  duck !  Faith,  the  horse  gave  a 
lep  and  threwn  herself  down,  an'  meself  was  thrown 
a-past  her,  and  the  man  the  other  side,  and  he  broke 
his  little  finger,  and  the  harness  was  broke." 

He  dwelt  for  a  moment  on  the  memory,  and  we 
made  comment. 

"  What  did  we  do,  is  it  ?  "  Rickeen  went  on.  "  To 
walk  into  the  town  o'  Swineford  we  done.  '  It's 
hardly  we'll  find  a  house  open  in  it,'  says  the  fella 
that  was  dhrivin'  me.  But  what  'd  it  be  but  the  night 
before  the  Fair  o'  Swineford,  and  there  was  lads  goin' 
to  the  fair  that  had  boots  for  mendin',  and  faith  we 
seen  the  light  in  the  shoemaker's  house  when  we  come 
into  the  town." 

"  That  was  luck  for  you,"  said  Martin. 

Rickeen  turned  his  dark  eyes  on  her,  and  then  on  me, 
with  an  expression  that  had  in  it  something  of  pity, 
and  something  of  triumph,  the  triumph  of  the  story- 
teller who  has  a  stone  in  his  sling. 

"  'Twas  a  half  door  was  in  it,"  he  went  on,  "  and 

N  2 


180  IRISH  MEMORIES 

when  I  looked  over  the  door,  faith  I  started  when  I 
seen  the  two  that  was  inside,  an'  they  sewin'  boots. 
Two  brothers  they  were,  an'  they  as  small — !  "  He 
spread  forth  his  two  lean  brown  hands  at  about  three 
feet  above  the  ground,  "  an'  not  as  much  mate  on 
them  as  'd  bait  a  mouse  thrap,  an'  they  as  quare —  !  " 
He  turned  aside,  and  secretly  spat  behind  his  hand. 
"  Faith,  I  wasn't  willin'  to  go  in  where  they  were. 
'Twasn't  that  they  were  that  small  entirely,  nor  they 
had  no  frump  on  thim— — " 

"  No  whaU  Rick  ?  "  we  ventured. 

"  No  frump  like,  on  their  shoulder,"  Rick  said, 
with  an  explanatory  hand  indicating  a  hump  ;  "  but 
faith,  above  all  ever  I  seen  I  wouldn't  wish  to  go  next 
or  nigh  them  1 

"  The  man  that  was  with  me  put  a  bag  on  the  horse's 
head.  '  Come  inside,'  says  he,  '  till  they  have  the 
harness  mended.'  '  I'll  stay  mindin'  the  horse,'  says 
I,  '  for  fear  would  she  spill  the  oats.'  '  I  know  well,' 
says  he,  '  ye  wouldn't  like  to  go  in  where  thim  is  ! ' 
*  Well  then,  God  knows  I  would  not !  '  says  I,  '  above 
all  ever  I  seen  ! '  " 

"  And  had  they  the  Bad  Eye  ?  "  said  Martin. 

Rickeen  again  turned  aside,  and  the  propitiatory 
or  protective  act  was  repeated. 

"  I  dunno  what  way  was  in  thim,"  he  replied, 
cautiously,  "  but  b'lieve  me  'twas  thim  that  could 
sew !  " 

At  this  point  a  long  and  seemingly  tortured  squeal 
from  the  Puppet  told  that  the  rabbit  had  at  long  last 
broken  covert.  I  cannot  now  remember  if  he  or  the 
rabbit  had  the  pre-eminence — I  think  the  rabbit— but 
the  immediate  result  was  that  for  us  the  story  of  those 
Leprechaim  brethren  remained  unfinished,  which  is, 
perhaps,  more  stimulating,  and  leaves  the  imagination 
something  to  play  with. 


CHAPTER  XV 

FAITH   AND   FAIRIES 

In  our  parts  of  Ireland  we  do  not  for  a  moment 
pretend  to  be  too  civilised  for  superstition.  When 
Cromwell  offered  the  alternative  of  "  Hell  or  Con- 
naught,"  with,  no  doubt,  the  comfortable  feeling 
that  it  was  a  case  of  six  of  one  and  half  a  dozen  of 
the  other,  more  creatures  than  he  knew  of  accepted 
the  latter  refuge.  And  when,  in  the  County  Cork,  the 
ancient  saying  was  proved  that  "  Beyond  the  Leap  " 
—which  is  a  village  about  twelve  miles  inland  from 
the  Western  Ocean — was  indeed  "  beyond  the  Law," 
and  that  the  King's  writ,  if  it  ran  at  all,  ran  for  its 
life  in  the  wrong  direction,  sanctuary  was  found  there, 
also,  for  more  than  the  hard-pressed  people  of  the 
land. 

The  "  Fairies  and  Bridhogues  and  Witches  "  of  the 
old  song  fled  west  and  south  ;  in  Galway,  in  Kerry  and 
in  Cork,  they  are  still  with  us.  Have  I  not  seen  and 
handled  a  little  shoe  that  was  found  in  a  desolate  pass 
of  the  Bantry  mountains  ?  It  was  picked  up  seventy 
or  eighty  years  ago  by  a  countryman,  who  was  crossing 
a  pass  at  dawn  to  fetch  the  doctor  to  his  child.  It  is 
about  two  and  a  half  inches  long,  and  is  of  leather, 
in  all  respects  like  a  countryman's  brogue,  a  little 
worn,  as  if  the  wearer  had  had  it  in  use  for  some  time. 
The  countryman  gave  it  to  the  doctor,  and  the  doctor's 


182  IRISH  MEMORIES 

niece  showed  it  to  me,  and  if  anyone  can  offer  a  more 
reasonable  suggestion  than  that  a  Leprechaun  made 
it  for  a  fairy  customer,  who,  Hke  Cinderella,  dropped 
it  at  a  dance  in  the  mountains,  I  should  be  glad  to 
hear  it. 

At  Delphi,  in  Connemara,  to  two  brothers,  a  Bishop 
and  a  Dean  of  the  Irish  Church,  many  years  before 
its  disestablishment,  when  Bishops  were  Lords  Spiritual 
and  Temporal,  and  by  no  means  people  to  be  trifled 
with,  to  these,  and  to  their  sister,  there  came  visibly 
down  the  beautiful  Erriff  river  a  boatload  of  fairies. 
They  disembarked  at  a  little  strand — one  of  those 
smooth  and  golden  river  strands  that  were  obviously 
created  in  order  to  be  danced  on  by  fairies — and  there 
the  fairies  danced,  under  the  eyes  of  "^Tom  of  Tuam  " 
(thus  I  have  heard  that  Bishop  irreverently  spoken 
of  by  my  cousin  Nannie  Martin),  and  of  his  brother,  the 
Dean,  and  of  their  sister ;  but  to  what  music  I  know 
not.  They  were  possibly  related  to  the  Ross  fairies, 
as  it  was  noted  (by  the  Bishop's  sister,  I  believe)  that 
they  "  wore  red  caps,  and  were  very  small  and 
graceful." 

Not  half  a  mile  from  Drishane  Gate  there  is  a  little 
wood  that  has  not  the  best  of  reputations.  At  its 
western  end  there  is  an  opening,  out  of  the  road  that 
traverses  it,  that  has  been  immemorially  called  the 
Fairies'  Gap.  I  have  in  vain  striven  to  obtain  the 
facts  as  to  the  Fairies'  Gap.  Such  information  as  was 
obtainable  had  no  special  connection  with  Those 
People,  yet  was  vague  and  disquieting.  That  there 
was  Something  within  in  the  wood,  and  it  might  come 
out  at  you  when  you'd  be  going  through  it  late  of  an 
evening,  but  if  "  you  could  have  a  Friendly  Ghost 
to  be  with  you,  there  could  no  harm  happen  you." 
The  thought  of  the  friendly  ghost  is  strangely  soothing 
and   reassuring ;     perhaps    oftener   than   one   knows 


FAITH  AND  FAIRIES  188 

one  has  a  kind  and  viewless  companion  to  avert 
danger. 

Only  eighteen  months  ago  I  was  told  of  an  old  man 
who  was  coming  from  the  West  into  Castle  Townshend 
village  to  get  his  separation  allowance.  "  A  decent 
old  man  he  was  too,  and  he  a  tailor,  with  a  son  in  the 
army  in  France.  He  was  passing  through  the  wood, 
and  it  duskish,  and  what  would  he  see  but  the  road 
full  of  ladies,  ten  thousand  of  them,  he  thought. 
They  passed  him  out,  going  very  quietly,  like  nuns 
they  were,  and  there  was  one  o'  them,  and  when  she 
passed  him  out,  he  said  she  looked  at  him  so  pitiful, 
'  Faith,'  says  the  old  tailor,  '  if  I  had  a  fi'  pun  note  to 
my  name  I'd  give  it  in  Masses  for  her  soul ! '  " 

I  was  told  by  a  woman,  a  neighbour  of  mine,  of  a 
young  wife  who  lived  among  these  hills,  and  was 
caught  away  by  the  fairies  and  hidden  under  Liss 
Ard  Lake.  "  A  little  girl  there  was,  of  the  Driscolls, 
that  was  sent  to  Skibbereen  on  a  message,  and  when 
she  was  coming  home,  at  the  bridge,  east  of  the  lake, 
one  met  her,  and  took  her  in  under  the  lake  entirely. 
And  she  seen  a  deal  there,  and  great  riches  ;  and  who 
would  she  meet  only  the  young  woman  that  was 
whipped  away.  *  Let  you  not  eat  e'er  a  thing,'  says 
she  to  the  little  girl,  *  the  way  Theirselves  '11  not  be 
able  to  keep  you.'  She  told  the  little  girl  then  that 
she  should  tell  her  husband  that  on  a  night  in  the  week 
she  would  go  riding  with  the  fairies,  and  to  let  him 
wait  at  the  cross-roads  above  on  Bluidth.  Herself 
would  be  on  the  last  horse  of  them,  and  he  a  white 
horse,  and  when  the  husband  'd  see  her,  he  should 
catch  a  hold  of  her,  and  pull  her  from  the  horse,  and 
keep  her.  The  little  girl  went  home,  and  she  told  the 
husband.  The  husband  said  surely  he  would  go  and 
meet  her  the  way  she  told  him  ;  but  the  father  of  the 
woman  told  him  he  would  be  better  leave  her  with 


184  IRISH  MEMORIES 

them  now  they  had  her,  as  he  would  have  no  more 
luck  with  her,  and  in  the  latter  end  the  husband  was 
said  by  him,  and  he  left  the  woman  with  them." 

I  know  the  cross-roads  above  on  Bluidth ;  often, 
coming  back  from  hunting,  "  and  it  duskish,"  with  the 
friendly  hounds  round  my  horse,  and  my  home  waiting 
for  me,  I  have  thought  of  the  lost  woman  that  was 
riding  the  white  horse  at  the  end  of  the  fairy  troop, 
and  of  the  tragic  eyes  that  watched  in  vain  for  the 
coward  husband. 

*  *  4(  *  ale 

We  have,  or  had,  a  saint  in  Castle  Haven  parish, 
Saint  Barrahane  was  his  name,  and  his  Well  of  Bap- 
tism is  still  honoured  and  has  the  usual  unattractive 
tributes  of  rag  on  its  over-shadowing  thorn-bush. 
The  well  is  in  a  deep,  wooded  glen,  just  above  a 
graveyard  that  is  probably  of  an  equal  age  with  it. 
The  graveyard  lies  on  the  shore,  under  the  lee  of 
that  castle  that  stood  the  bombardment  from  Queen 
Elizabeth's  sea  captains  ;  the  sea  has  made  more  than 
one  sally  to  invade  the  precincts,  but  the  protecting 
sea  wall,  though  it  has  been  undermined  and  sometimes 
thrown  down,  has  not,  so  far,  failed  of  its  office.  It 
is  considered  a  good  and  fortunate  place  to  be  buried 
in.  All  my  people  lie  there,  and  I  think  there  should 
be  luck  for  those  who  lie  in  a  place  of  such  ancient 
sanctity.  It  is  held  that  the  last  person  who  is  buried 
in  it  has  to  keep  the  graveyard  in  order,  and — in  what 
way  is  not  specified — to  attend  to  the  wants  of  his 
neighbours.  I  can  well  remember  seeing  a  race 
between  two  funerals,  as  to  which  should  get  their 
candidate  to  the  graveyard  first.  A  very  steep  and 
winding  lane  leads  down  to  the  sea,  and  down  it  thun- 
dered the  carts  with  the  coffins,  and  their  following 
corteges. 

In  the  next  parish  to  Castle  Haven  there  is  a  grave- 


FAITH  AND  FAIRIES  185 

yard  lonelier  even  than  that  of  Saint  Barrahane. 
Like  most  of  the  ancient  burial  places  it  is  situated 
close  to  the  sea,  probably  to  permit  of  the  funerals 
taking  place  by  boat,  in  times  when  roads  hardly 
existed.  There,  at  the  top  of  the  cliffs,  among  the 
ruins  of  a  church,  and  among  the  dreadful  wreck  of 
tombs  too  old  even  for  tradition  to  whisper  whose 
once  they  were,  there  took  place,  not  long  ago,  the 
funeral  of  a  certain  woman,  who  was  well  known  and 
well  loved.  I  was  told  of  an  old  beggar-woman  who 
walked  many  miles  to  see  the  last  of  a  friend. 

"  She  rose  early,  and  she  hasted,  and  she  was  at 
the  gate  of  the  graveyard  when  the  funeral  was 
coming,"  another  woman  told  me ;  "  an'  when  she 
seen  them,  and  they  carrying  in  the  corpse,  she  let 
the  owld  cloak  back  from  her.  And  when  she  seen 
the  corpse  pass  her,  she  threw  up  the  hands,  and  says 
she,  '  That  your  journey  may  thrive  wid  ye  ! '  " 

That  journey  that  we  think  to  be  so  long  and  dark 
and  difficult.  Perhaps  we  may  find,  as  in  so  many  of 
our  other  journeys,  that  it  is  the  preparation  and 
the  setting  forth  that  are  the  hardest  part  of  it. 

In  Ireland,  at  all  events,  it  is  certain  that  a  warning 
to  the  traveller,  or  to  the  friends  of  the  traveller, 
is  sometimes  vouchsafed.  Things  happen  that  are 
explainable  in  no  commonsense,  commonplace  way ; 
things  of  which  one  can  only  say  that  they  are  with- 
drawals for  an  instant  of  the  curtain  that  veils  the 
spiritual  from  the  material.  I  speak  only  of  what  I 
have  personal  knowledge,  and  I  will  not  attempt  to 
justify  my  beliefs  to  anyone  who  may  consider  either 
that  I  have  deceived  myself,  or  that  the  truth  is 
not  in  me.  In  the  spring  of  1886  one  of  my  great- 
aunts  died.  She  had  been  a  Herbert,  from  the  County 
Kerry,  and  had  married  my  grandfather's  brother, 
Major  John  Somerville.      Her  age  "  went  with  the 


186  IRISH  MEMORIES 

century,"  and  when  heavy  illness  came  upon  her  there 
was  obviously  but  little  hope  of  her  recovery.  I  went 
late  one  afternoon  to  inquire  for  her.  She  lived  in  a 
small  house  just  over  the  sea,  and  my  way  to  it  from 
Brisbane  lay  through  a  dark  little  grove  of  tall  trees  ; 
a  high  cliff  shut  out  the  light  on  one  hand,  below  the 
path  were  the  trees,  straining  up  to  the  height  of  the 
cliff,  and  below  the  trees,  the  sea,  which,  on  that 
February  evening,  strove,  and  tossed,  and  growled. 
The  last  news  had  been  that  she  was  better,  but  as  I 
went  through  the  twilight  of  the  trees  a  woman's 
voice  quite  near  me  was  lifted  up  in  a  long  howl, 
ending  in  sobs.  I  said  to  myself  that  Aunt  Fanny 
was  dead,  and  this  was  "  Nancyco,"  her  ancient  dairy- 
woman,  keening  her.  In  a  moment  I  heard  the  cry 
and  the  sobs  again,  such  large,  immoderate  sobs  as 
countrywomen  dedicate  to  a  great  occasion,  and  as 
I  hurried  along  that  gloomy  path  the  crying  came  a 
third  time.  Decidedly  Aunt  Fanny  was  dead.  Arrived 
at  the  house,  it  was  quite  a  shock  to  hear  that,  on 
the  contrary,  she  was  better.  I  asked,  with  some 
indignation,  why,  this  being  so,  Nancyco  was  making 
such  a  noise.  I  was  told  that  Nancyco  hadn't  been 
"  in  it "  all  day ;  that  she  was  at  home,  and  that 
there  was  no  one  "  in  it."  I  said  naught  of  my 
Banshee,  but  when,  three  days  afterwards,  the  old 
lady  slipped  out  through  that  opening  in  the  curtain, 
I  remembered  her  warning. 

Such  a  thing  has  happened  thrice  in  my  knowledge  ; 
the  second  time  on  a  lovely  June  night,  the  night  of 
the  eve  of  St.  John,  when  every  hill  was  alight  with 
bonfires,  and  one  might  hope  the  powers  of  evil  were 
propitiated  and  at  rest.  Yet,  on  that  still  and  holy 
night,  six  boys  and  girls,  the  children  of  some  of  my 
father's  tenants,  were  drowned  on  their  way  home 
from  a  church  festival  that  %\i^j  had  attended  at  Ross 


FAITH  AND  FAIRIES  187 

Carbery.  The  party  of  eight  young  people  had  rowed 
along  the  coast  to  Ross  harbour,  and  of  the  eight  but 
two  returned.  At  "  the  mid-hour  of  night "  my 
sister,  who  was  then  only  a  child,  came  running  to 
my  room  for  shelter  and  reassurance.  She  had  been 
wakened  by  the  crying  of  a  woman,  in  the  garden 
under  her  window ;  the  crying  came  in  successive 
bursts,  and  she  was  frightened.  At  breakfast  the 
news  of  the  drowning  was  brought  to  my  father.  It 
had  happened  near  an  island,  and  it  was  at  just  about 
the  time  that  the  voice  had  broken  the  scented  peace 
of  the  June  night  that  the  boatload  of  boys  and  girls 
were  fighting  for  their  lives  in  the  black  water,  and 
some  of  them  losing  the  fight. 

One  other  time  also  I  know  of,  though  the  warning 
was  not,  as  I  might  have  expected,  given  to  me  person- 
ally. The  end  was  near,  and  the  voice  cried  beneath 
the  windows  of  the  room  in  which  Martin  lay.  The 
hearing  of  it  was,  perhaps  in  mercy,  withheld  from 
me.  The  anguish  of  those  December  days  of  1915 
needed  no  intensifying. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

'  BELIEFS     AND    BELIEVERS 

There    is,    I    imagine,    some    obscure    connection 
between  the  Fairies  and  the  Evil  Eye.      There  was 
"  an  old  Cronachaun  of  a  fellow,"  who  lived  in  the 
parish  of  Myross,  who  was  said  to  be  "  away  with  the 
Fairies  "  a  great  deal,  and,  whether  as  a  resulting 
privilege  or  not  I  cannot  say,  he  also  had  the  Bad 
Eye.      It  was  asserted  that  he  could  go  to  the  top 
of  Mount  Gabriel,  which  is  a  good  twenty  miles  away, 
in  five  minutes.     It  seems  a  harmless  feat,  but  it  must 
be  said  that  Mount  Gabriel,  in  spite  of  its  name,  is 
not  altogether  to  be  trusted.     It  is  the  sort  of  place 
where  the  "  Fodheen  Mara  "  might  come  on  at  any 
moment.       The  Fodheen  Mara  is  a  sudden  loss  of 
your  bearings,  and  a  bewilderment  as  to  where  you 
are,  that  prevails,  like  a  miasma,  in  certain  spots  ; 
but,  Rickeen  has  told  me,  "if   a  person  'd  have  as 
much  sense  as  to  turn  anything  he'd  have  on  him 
inside  out,  he'd  know  the  way  again  in  the  minute." 
Or  the  "  Fare  Gurtha  "  might  assail  you,  and  it  is 
even  more  awful  than  the  Fodheen  Mara,  being  a 
sudden  starvation  that  doubles  you  up  and  kills  you, 
unless  you  can  instantly  get  food.     Also,  on  Mount 
Gabriel's  summit  there  is  a  lake,  and  it  is  well  known 
that  a  heifer  that  ran  into  the  lake  came  back  to  her 
owner  out  of  the  sea,   "  below  in  SchuU  harbour," 
which  implies  something  wrong,  somewhere. 


f    BELIEFS  AND  BELIEVERS  189 

A  neighbour  of  the  old  Cronachaun  (which  means  a 
dwarfish  cripple),  and  presumably  a  rival  in  the  Black 
Arts,  was  accused  by  the  Cronachaun's  wife  of  being 
"  an  owld  wicked  divil  of  a  witch- woman,  who  is 
up  to  ninety  years,  but  she  can't  die  because  she's 
that  bad  the  Lord  won't  take  her  !  Sure  didn't  she 
look  out  of  her  door  and  see  meself  going  by,  and  says 
she  '  Miggera  Murth  ' !  (and  that  means  '  misfortune 
to  ye ')  and  the  owld  daughther  she  has,  she  looked 
out  too,  and  she  says,  three  times  over,  '  Amin-a- 
heerna  I '  and  after  that  what  did  I  do  but  to  fall 
off  the  laddher  and  break  me  leg  !  " 

"  Amin-a-heerna  "  is  a  reiterated  amen.  No  wonder 
the  curse  operated. 

I  have  myself,  when  pursuing  the  harmless  trade  of 
painter,  been  credited  with  the  possession  of  the 
Evil  Eye.  In  the  Isle  of  Aran,  Martin  has  told  how 
"  at  the  first  sight  of  the  sketch  book  the  village 
street  becomes  a  desert ;  the  mothers,  spitting  to 
avert  the  Bad  Eye,  snatch  their  children  into  their 
houses,  and  bang  their  doors.  The  old  women  vanish 
from  the  door-steps,  the  boys  take  to  the  rocks." 
We  are  too  civilised  now  in  West  Carbery  to  hold  these 
opinions,  but  I  can  recollect  the  speed  with  which 
an  old  man,  a  dweller  in  an  unfashionable  part  of 
Castle  Townshend,  known  as  Dirty  Lane,  fled  before 
me  down  that  thoroughfare,  declaring  that  the  Lord 
should  take  him,  and  no  one  else  (ajeu  d' esprit  which 
I  cannot  but  think  was  unintentional). 

Probably 

"  In  the  dacent  old  days 
Before  stockings  and  stays 
Were  invented,  or  breeches,  top-boots  and  top-hats," 

all  illness  was  attributed  to  ill-wishers.  It  is  certain 
that  charms  and  remedies,  all  more  or  less  disgusting, 
are  still  relied  on,  and  are  exhibited  with  a  faith  that 


190  IRISH  MEMORIES 

I's  denied  to  the  doctor's  remedies,  and  that  wins  half 
the  battle  in  advance. 

"  Ha,  thim  docthors  !  "  said  a  dissatisfied  patient 
on  hearing  of  the  death  of  his  medical  adviser.  "  They 
can  let  themselves  die  too  !  " 

I  think  it  advisable,  for  many  reasons,  to  withhold 
such  recipes  as  I  can  now  recall,  but  I  may  offer  a 
couple  of  samples  that  will  possibly  check  any  desire 
for  more. 

In  typhoid  fever :  "  close  out "  all  the  windows, 
and  anoint  the  patient  from  head  to  foot  with  sheep's 
butter. 

In  whooping-cough  :  the  patient  should  be  put 
"  under  an  ass,  and  over  an  ass  "  ;  but  a  better  method 
is  to  induce  a  gander  to  spit  down  the  sufferer's 
throat. 

"  A  lucky  hand  "  in  doctor  or  nurse  is  of  more  value 
than  many  diplomas.  There  is  an  old  woman  whose 
practice  has  been  untrammelled  by  the  fetters  or 
follies  of  science. 

"  The  cratures  !  "  she  says  of  her  cUents.  "  They 
sends  for  me,  and  I  goes  to  them,  and  I  gives  them  the 
best  help  I  can.  And  sure  the  Lord  Almighty's  very 
thankful  to  me  ;   He'd  be  glad  of  a  help  too." 

She  is  now  "  pushing  ninety,"  but  she  is  still  helping. 

If  a  quack  is  not  procurable,  a  doctor  with  a  hot 
temper  is  generally  well  thought  of.  Martin  made 
some  notes  of  a  conversation  that  she  had  with  a 
countryman  in  West  Carbery,  which  exemplified 
this  fact.  The  "  Old  Doctor  "  referred  to  was  noted 
for  his  potency  in  language  as  in  physic,  and  it  was 
valued. 

"  Lave  him  curse,  Ma'am  !  "  whispered  a  patient  to 
the  doctor's  expostulating  wife,  "  For  God's  sake, 
lave  him  curse  !  " 

"  I  had  to  wait  in  a  hayfield  at  the  top  of  the  Glen," 
Martin's  notes  record,  "  while  E.  was  haranguing  at  a 


BELIEFS  AND  BELIEVERS  Idl 

cottage  about  a  litter  of  cubs,  whose  Mamma  con- 
sidered that  chicken,  now  and  then,  was  good  for 
them.  There  was  a  man  making  the  hay  into  small 
cocks,  with  much  the  same  delicate  languor  with 
which  an  invalid  arranges  an  offering  of  flowers. 
Glandore  Harbour  was  spread  forth  below  me,  a  lovely- 
space  of  glittering  water,  and  the  music  of  invisible 
larks  drifted  down  in  silver  shreds  through  air  that 
trembled  with  heat.  This,  I  thought,  is  a  good  place 
in  which  to  be,  and  I  selected  a  haycock  capable  of 
supporting  me,  and  the  haymaker  and  I  presently 
fell  into  converse.  The  talk,  I  now  forget  why,  turjied 
to  the  medical  profession. 

"  *  Thim  Cork  docthors  was  very  nice,'  said  the 
man,  pausing  from  his  labours,  and  seating  himself 
upon  a  neighbouring  haycock,  '  but  sure  docthors 
won't  do  much  for  the  likes  of  us,  only  for  ladies  and 
gentlemen.  Ye  should  be  the  Pink  of  Fashion  for 
them  !  ' 

"  He  surveyed  me  narrowly  ;  apparently  the  thick- 
ness of  the  soles  of  my  boots  inspired  him  with 
confidence. 

"  *  Ye're  a  counthry  lady,  and  ye  have  understand- 
ing of  poor  people.  Some  o'  thim  docthors  would  be 
sevare  on  poor  people  if  their  houses  wouldn't  be — ' 
he  considered,  and  decided  that  the  expression  was 
good  enough  to  bear  repetition,  ' — wouldn't  be  the 
Pink  of  Fashion.  Well,  the  Owld  Docthor  was  good, 
but  he  was  very  cross.  But  the  people  that  isn't 
cross  is  the  worst.  There's  no  good  in  anny  woman 
that  isn't  cross.  Sure,  you  know  yourself,  my  lady, 
the  gerr'l  that's  cross,  she's  the  good  servant ! ' 

"  He  looked  to  me,  with  his  head  on  one  side  for 
assent.     I  assented. 

"  '  Well,  as  for  the  Owld  Docthor,'  he  resumed, 
'  he  was  very  cross,  but  afther  he  put  that  blast 
out  of  him  he'd  be  very  good.     My  own  brother  was 


192  IRISH  MEMORIES 

goin'  into  th'  Excise,  and  he  went  to  the  Owld 
Docthor  for  a  certifi-cat.  Sure,  didn't  the  Docthor 
give  him  back  the  sovereign !  "  You'll  want  it," 
says  he,  "  for  yer  journey."  There  was  an  old 
lady  here,  and  she  was  as  cross  as  a  diggle.'  ('  A 
diggle,'  it  may  be  noted,  is  a  euphuism  by  which,  to 
ears  polite,  the  Prince  of  Darkness  is  indicated.) 
'  She'd  go  out  to  where  the  men  'd  be  working,  and 
if  she'd  be  displeased,  she'd  go  round  them  with  a 
stick.  Faith  she  would.  She'd  put  them  in  with  a 
stick  !  But  afther  five  minutes  she'd  be  all  right ; 
afther  she  had  that  blast  put  out  of  her.' 

"  It  gives  a  comfortable  feeling  that  '  crossness  ' 
is  of  the  nature  of  a  gas-shell,  and  can  be  eliminated 
from  the  system  in  a  single  explosion." 

Unfortunately  the  interview  was  interrupted  here. 

Dean  Swift  says  somewhere  that  "  Good  manners 
is  the  art  of  making  those  people  easy  with  whom  we 
converse."  Martin  had  a  very  special  gift  of  en- 
couraging people  to  talk  to  her.  There  was  something 
magnetic  about  her,  some  power  of  sympathy  and 
extraction  combined.  Together  with  this  she  had  a 
singular  gift  of  toleration  for  stupid  people,  even  of 
enjoyment  of  stupidity,  if  sincerity,  and  a  certain 
virtuous  anxiety,  accompanied  it.  She  was  wont 
to  declare  that  the  personal  offices  of  a  good  and  dull 
person  were  pleasing  to  her.  The  fumbling  efforts, 
the  laboured  breathing  of  one  endeavouring— let  us 
say — to  untie  her  veil ;  a  man,  for  choice,  frightened, 
but  thoroughly  well-intentioned  and  humble.  This 
she  enjoyed,  repudiating  the  reproach  of  effeteness, 
which,  in  this  connection,  I  have  many  times  laid  to 
her  charge. 

In  dealing  with  Rickeen,  however,  allowances  for 
stupidity  (she  called  it  simplicity)  had  not  to  be  taken 


BELIEFS  AND  BELIEVERS  198 

into  consideration.  I  have  a  letter  from  her,  re- 
counting another  of  her  conversations  with  Rick, 
in  which  he  discussed  a  "  village  tragedy "  that 
occurred  at  Christmas  time,  a  few  years  after  she  had 
returned  to  Ross.  (The  reference  at  the  beginning  of 
the  letter  is  to  the  sudden  death  of  an  acquaintance. ) 

V.  F.  M.  to  E.  CE.  S.     (Ross,  January,  1894.) 

"  These  sudden  deaths  are  happy  for  the  people 
who  die  them,  but  desperate  for  those  who  are  left 
behind.  Certainly  it  makes  one  feel  that  the  thing 
to  desire,  beyond  most  heavenly  things,  is  strength 
to  face  the  dreadful  thing  that  may  be  coming.  For 
oneself,  one  could  wish  for  the  passion  for  death  that 
was  in  a  young  fellow  here.  He  disappeared  on  St. 
Stephen's  Day  ^  and  they  found  him  at  last  in  the 
Wood  of  Annagh,  in  an  awful  pond  that  is  on  your 
left,  just  after  you  get  into  the  wood — Poulleen-a-ferla. 
They  hooked  him  up  from  among  the  sunken  branches 
of  trees,  and  found  him  by  getting  a  boat  on  to  the 
pool  and  staring  down  in  all  lights.  Finally  they 
wrapped  a  big  stone  in  a  white  flannel  '  bauneen ' 
and  dropped  it  in.  They  were  just  able  to  see  where 
it  lay,  and  it  placed  things  for  them,  so  that  they  at 
last  recognised  some  dim  companion  shadow  as  what 
they  were  searching  for,  and  got  it  out.  He  was  a 
very  religious  and  steady  young  man,  but  his  mind 
was  weak,  and  it  turns  out  that  what  chiefly  preyed 
on  it  was  that  one  day  some  people  called  him  from 
his  work  and  deluded  him  somehow  into  shortening 
up  the  chain  of  the  chapel  bell,  in  order  that  when  the 
new  priest  came  to  hold  Mass  next  Sunday,  the  bell 
could  not  be  rung.  (I  have  told  you  that  Father  Z. 
has  been  forbidden  to  officiate,  and  a  new  priest  is 
coming.) 

1  December  26th. 


194  IRISH  MEMORIES 

"  When  this  poor  boy  found  out  what  he  had  done, 
he  was  miserable.  He  brooded  over  it  and  his  people 
were  alarmed,  and  watched  him,  more  or  less,  but  not 
enough.  Never  was  a  more  bitter  comment  on  a 
parish  feud,  and  never  was  there  a  more  innocent  and 
godly  life  turned  to  active  insanity  by  dastardly 
treatment.  (The  curs,  who  were  afraid  to  meddle  with 
the  Chapel  themselves  !)  " 

Rickeen's  discussion  of  the  matter  with  Martin  and 
one  of  the  "  Nursies  "  is  interesting  in  showing  the 
point  of  view  of  an  intelligent  peasant,  a  man  who  had 
been  to  America,  and  who  was,  though  illiterate,  of 
exceptionally  sound  and  subtle  judgment.  I  copy 
it  from  the  notes  that  Martin  sent  to  me. 

"  Rickeen  and  Nurse  Davin  and  I  were  talking  about 
the  poor  boy  who  is  believed  to  have  drowned  himself. 
Rick  took  up  his  parable. 

"  '  Sure  you  remember  of  him  ?  Red  Mike's  son, 
back  in  Brahalish  ?  Him  that  used  to  be  minding 
the  bins  for  the  Misthress  ? 

"  '  Always  and  ever  he  was  the  same  ;  not  a  word  o* 
talk  out  of  him  the  longest  year  that  ever  came,  only 
talkin'  about  God,  and  goin'  to  Mass,  and  very  fond 
of  the  work.  Sure  they  say  the  mother  wouldn't  let 
him  to  Mass  this  while  back  to  Father  X.'  (N.B. 
This  is  the  lawful  priest.  Father  Z.,  his  predecessor, 
was  suspended  by  the  Church,  but  many  of  the  parish 
still  side  with  him.)  '  And  Mortheen,  the  brother 
that's  in  Galway,  got  an  account  he  was  frettin'  like, 
and  he  hired  a  car  and  took  him  to  Galway  to  go  to 
Mass  there,  and  tellin'  him  no  one  'd  be  denyin'  him 
there.  Faith,  sorra  Mass  he'd  go  to  in  it !  They  say 
before  he  left  home,  a  whileen  back,  himself  was  back 
in  the  room,  and  the  people  was  outside,  talkin',  and 
sayin'  he  should  be  sent  to  Ballinasloe  '  (the  Lunatic 


BELIEFS  AND  BELIEVERS  195 

Asylum)  '  and  sorra  bit  but  when  they  looked  round, 
himself  was  there,  leshnin*  to  them !  "  What  did 
I  ever  do  to  ye  ?  "  says  he,  '*  And  aren't  ye  damned 
fools,"  says  he,  walkin'  over  to  them  this  way,  ''  to 
think  ye'll  put  me  in  it !  "  says  he.  And  sorra  word 
more  he  spoke. 

"  *  The  Lord  save  us  !  They're  lookin'  for  him 
now  since  Stephenses  Day,  and  I'm  sure  'tis  in 
PouUeen-a-ferla  he  is.  He  was  down  lookin'  at  it  a 
while  ago,  and  Stephenses  Day  they  seen  him  runnin' 
down  through  Bullywawneen,  and  they're  afther 
findin'  his  Scaflflin  and  his  Agnus  Di  ^  on  a  flagstone 
that's  on  the  brink.  Sure  he  took  thim  off  him  the 
ways  he'd  be  dhrowned.  No  one  could  be  dhrowned 
that  had  thim  on  him.     Faith,  he  could  not. 

"  '  Didn't  ye  hear  talk  of  the  man  back  in  Malrour, 
that  wint  down  to  the  lake  last  Sunday,  and  jumped 
into  it  to  dhrown  himself  ?  The  people  that  seen  him 
they  ran,  and  they  dhragged  him  out,  an'  he  lyin'  on 
his  back,  and  the  scafflin  he  got  from  the  priest  round 
his  neck  ;   and  it  dhry  !     God  help  the  crature  !  ' 

"  (Nurse  Davin,  weeping,  *  Amin  !     Amin  !  ') 

"  *  But  sure  what  way  can  they  find  him  in  PouUeen- 
a-ferla  ?  I  know  well  there's  thirty  feet  o'  wather  in  it. 
Maybe  they'd  see  him  down  through  the  wather  to-day, 
it's  that  clear.  God  knows  'tis  quare  weather.  The 
air's  like  it  'd  be  comin'  up  out  o'  the  ground,  and  no 
breeze  in  it  at  all !  I'm  thinkin'  it's  the  weather  as 
well  as  another  that's  puttin'  the  people  asthray  in 
their  heads.' 

"  Rick  paused  here  to  take  breath,  and  turned 
to  Nurse  Davin,  who  was  peeling  potatoes,  and 
groaning  at  suitable  intervals. 

"  *  Nurse,  did  ye  ever  hear  tell  o'  puttin'  a  shave 
(sheaf)   o'  oats  on   the  wather    where   ye'd  think    a 
^  Scapular  and  Agnus  Dei. 

O  2 


196  IRISH  MEMORIES 

pairson  'd  be  dhrowned,  an'  it  '11  stand  up  whin  it  'd 
be  over  the  place  where  he's  lyin'  ?  They  have  a  shave 
bey  ant,  but  it's  lyin'  on  the  wather  always.  I 
wouldn't  believe  that  at  all.' 

"  Nurse  Davin  uttered  a  non-committal  invocation 
of  her  favourite  saint,  but  offered  no  opinion. 

"  '  Sure  it  was  that  that  they  coaxed  him  to  do 
at  the  chapel  that  preyed  on  him  entirely.' 

"  '  Lord  ha'  mercy  on  him  !  '  said  Nurse,  wiping 
her  eyes. 

"  '  When  he  knew  then  what  he  done,'  Rick  resumed, 
turning  to  me  again,  '  sorra  Mass  he'd  ever  go  to  again, 
and  they  knew  by  him  he  was  watchin'  his  shance  to 
make  off.  They  follied  him  a  few  days  back,  when 
they  seen  him  sneakin'  off  down  through  the  wood, 
but  sorra  bit  but  he  felt  them  afther  him  and  he  turned 
back. 

"  '  'Twas  on  Stephenses  Day  he  wint  cuttin'  a  rope 
o'  ferns  with  his  brother,  and  faith  when  the  brother 
was  talkin'  to  a  man  that  was  in  it,  he  shlipped  away. 
The  brother  thought  it  was  home  he  wint,  till  he  got 
the  rope  o'  ferns  threwn  afther  him  on  the  ground. 

"  '  An'  that,  now,  was  the  time  he  got  the  shance.' 

"  Nurse  Davin,  who  is  the  very  salt  of  the  earth, 
has  felt  it  all  very  deeply.  I  cheered  her  by  giving 
her  your  Christmas  messages.  She  was  overwhelmed 
with  gratitude.  '  And  would  ye  be  pleased  to  wish 
her  every  sort  of  good  luck  and  happiness,  and  the 
blessing  o'  God  on  her !  The  crature  !  Indeed  she 
was  good,  and  clane,  and  quiet,  and  sensible ! 
And  her  little  dog— so  nice  and  so  clever ! '  "  (This 
was  the  Puppet.)  " '  She  cried  afther  him,  the 
crature  !     She  could  do  no  more.'  " 

I  trust  I  maybe  pardoned  for  quoting  this  encomium. 
The  virtues  enumerated  by  Nurse  Davin  have  not 
often  been  ascribed  to  me. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

LETTERS   FROM    ROSS 

Taking  the  publication  of  "  An  Irish  Cousin  "  as 
the  beginning  of  our  literary  work,  its  next  develop- 
ment was  a  series  of  short  articles  on  Irish  subjects 
that  Martin  wrote,  single-handed,  for  the  World. 

The  sap  was  beginning  to  run  up  ;  more  and  more 
things  began  with  her  to  throw  themselves,  almost 
unconsciously,  into  phrases  and  forms.  Her  thoughts 
blossomed  in  the  fit  words,  as  the  life  in  the  tree 
breaks  in  leaves.  Everything  appealed  to  her  in 
this  new  life  at  Ross,  which  was  the  old,  and  while 
she  weeded  the  flower-beds  in  the  garden,  or  painted 
doors  in  the  house,  or  drove  her  mother  for  long 
miles  on  the  outside  car,  she  was  meditating,  and 
phrase-making,  and  formulating  her  impressions. 
These,  presently,  passing  through  her  letters  to  me, 
as  through  a  filter,  developed  into  an  article,  which  was 
primarily  inspired  by  the  death  of  one  of  the  older 
retainers  of  Ross. 

Mr.  Edmund  Yates  then  had  the  World  at  his 
feet,  having  created  it  not  very  many  years  before, 
and  that  he  possessed  the  flair  for  good  work  was 
evident  in  the  enthusiasm  for  her  writing  that,  from 
the  first,  he  did  not  attempt  to  conceal  from  Martin. 

If,  in  things  literary,  the  buyer  would  forget  his 
traditional  pose  of  saying  "  it  is  naught,"  and  would 

197 


198  IRISH  MEMORIES 

woo  the  thirsty,  tremulous  soul  of  the  artist  with 
appreciation,  the  bargain  would  not  often  work  out 
to  his  disadvantage.  Edmund  Yates  had  the  courage 
of  his  opinions,  and  the  admiration  that  he  was  too 
generous  to  withhold  more  than  counterbalanced 
the  minuteness  of  the  cheque  that  came  from  his 
cashier. 

The  first  of  these  articles,  "  A  Delegate  of  the 
National  League,"  appeared  in  July,  1889,  and  was 
received  by  our  friends  with  mingled  emotions.  It 
is  my  mature  conviction  that  they  were  horrified  by 
its  want  of  levity.  That  "  a  Shocker  "  should  preach, 
that  "  one  of  the  girls  "  should  discourse  on  what  was 
respectfully  summarised  by  a  young  lady  of  my  ac- 
quaintance as  "  Deep  subjects  of  Life  and  Death," 
was  not  quite  what  anyone  enjoyed.  Mrs.  H.  Ward's 
book,  "  Robert  Elsmere,"  had  just  appeared  ;  it  was 
considered  to  be  necessary  to  read  it,  and  to  talk 
intellectually  about  it,  and  it  was  found  wearing 
that  Martin  should  also  be  among  the  Prophets, 
and  should  write  what  one  of  her  cousins  called 
"  Potted  Carlyle."  None  the  less,  she  followed  up 
"  The  Delegate,"  in  a  month  or  two,  with  another 
article  in  the  same  vein,  entitled  "  Cheops  in  Conne- 
mara."  In  some  of  her  letters  of  this  period  she 
speaks  of  these  articles. 

"  I  weed  the  garden  a  good  deal,"  she  says,  "  and 
give  meat  to  my  household,  and  I  got  a  sort  of  grip 
of  the  Education  article  to-day,  and  hope  it  may  con- 
tinue. But  I  am  a  fraud  in  the  way  of  writing. 
I  heap  together  descriptions,  with  a  few  carefully 
constructed  moralities  interspersed,  and  hide  behind 
them,  so  that  no  one  shall  discern  my  ignorance  and 
hesitation. 

"  I  am  ploughing  along  at  an  article,  and  have  a 
most  ponderous  notion  in  my  head  for  another  about 


LETTERS  FROM  ROSS  199 

the  poor  women  of  the  West  of  Ireland,  their  lives, 
their  training,  their  characters,  all  with  a  view  as  to 
whether  they  would  be  the  better  for  having  votes, 
or  would  give  a  better  or  worse  vote  than  the  men. 
I  feel  overwhelmed  and  inadequate.  I  think  I  write 
worse  every  time  I  try "  (which  was  obviously 
absurd). 

"  Mama  has  had  a  most  kind  letter  from  Sir 
William  Gregory.  He  has  many  literary  friends  and 
so  has  Augusta  "  (Lady  Gregory),  "  and  he  says  they 
will  both  do  their  best  for  The  Shocker,  and  that  he 
hopes  his  conscience  will  allow  him  to  praise  it  with 
trumpets  and  shawms.  Poor  Mama  required  a  little 
bucking  up  after  the  profound  gloom  in  which  she 
was  plunged  by  a  letter  from  her  oldest  ally,  Mrs.  X., 
saying  she  thought  the  '  Delegate  '  was  '  high-flown 
and  verbose  ' — '  merely,  of  course,  the  faults  of  young 
writing,'  says  Mrs.  X.  Mama  was  absolutely  stag- 
gered, and  has  gone  about  saying  at  intervals,  '  Knee- 
buckles  to  a  Highlander  I  '  by  which  she  means  to 
express  her  glorious  contempt  for  Mrs.  X.'s  opinion  of 
the  classics." 

The  "  ponderous  notion "  of  which  she  spoke 
eventually  developed  into  an  article  which  she  called 
"  In  Sickness  and  in  Health."  It  first  appeared  in 
Blackwood's  Magazine^  and  we  reprinted  it  in 
**Some  Irish  Yesterdays."  It  is,  I  think,  a  very 
delightful  example  of  a  class  of  writing  in  which  she 
seems  to  me  to  be  unequalled. 

"  Erin,  the  tear  and  the  smile  in  thine  eye," 

is  a  line  that  is  entirely  applicable  to  her,  and  to  her 
outlook  on  the  ways  of  Ross  and  its  people.  She 
loved  them  and  she  laughed  at  them,  and  even  though 
she  could  hold  Ross  at  arm's  length,  to  analyse,  and  to 
philosophise,  and  to  make  literature  of  it  and  of  its 


200  IRISH  MEMORIES 

happenings,  she  took  it  back  to  her  heart  again,  and 
forgave  what  she  could  not  approve,  for  no  better 
reason  than  that  she  loved  it. 

I  am  aware  that  the  prosperity  of  a  letter,  as  of  a 
jest,  often  lies  in  the  ear  of  him  that  hears,  or  reads. 
Nevertheless  I  propose  here  and  now  to  give  a  few 
extracts  from  her  Ross  letters.  None  of  them  have 
any  connection  with  each  other,  or  with  anything  else 
in  particular,  and  anyone  who  fears  to  find  them 
irrelevant  or  frivolous  may,  like  Francie  Fitzpatrick 
(when  she  eluded  Master  Whitty)  "  give  a  defiant 
skip  and  pass  on." 

V.  F.  M.  to  E.  (E.  S.     (Ross,  1895.) 

"  Nurse  B.  gave,  yesterday,  a  fine  example  of 
using  the  feminine  for  animals  to  imply  cunning. 

"  *  Didn't  a  big  rat  walk  in  the  lardher  windy,  and 
me  lookin'  at  her  this  ways,  through  the  door,  an' 
she  took  a  bit  o'  bacon  to  dhrag  it  with  her.  She  was 
that  long '  (indicating  as  far  as  her  elbow),  '  an' 
not  that  high  !  '  (measuring  half  her  little  finger). 
'  Faith,  Bridgie  dhrove  her  the  way  she  came  ! ' 

"  Bridgie  is  of  undaunted  courage,  runs  after  rats 
to  slay  them,  and  fears  *  neither  God  nor  devil,  like 
the  Black  Prosbitarians.'  She  is  a  Topsy,  lies  and 
steals  and  idles,  and  is  as  clever  as  she  can  be.  Could 
you  but  see  her  with  a  pink  bow  in  her  cap,  and 
creaking  Sunday  boots,  and  her  flaming  orange  hair 
and  red  eyes  you  would  not  be  the  better  of  it.  She 
is  fifteen,  and  for  some  mysterious  reason,  unknown 
to  myself,  I  like  her.  ...  I  am  working  at  an 
article,  badly.  I  am  very  stupid,  and  not  the  least 
clever,  except  at  mending  blinds,  and  the  pump.  I 
am  tired  of  turning  away  my  eyes  from  iniquity  that 
I  cannot  rectify,  of  trying  to  get  the  servants  up  in 
the  morning,  of  many  things,  but  let  me  be  thankful, 


LETTERS  FROM  ROSS  201 

I  have  had  the  kitchen  whitewashed.  I  laugh  fool- 
ishly when  I  think  of  the  Herculaneum  and  Pompeii 
episode  from  which  the  cat  and  three  kittens  barely- 
escaped  with  their  lives.  The  cat,  being  in  labour, 
selected  as  her  refuge  the  old  oven  in  the  corner  of 
the  kitchen,  a  bricked  cavern,  warm,  lofty,  and 
secluded.  There,  among  bottles,  rags,  and  other 
concealments  of  Bridgie's,  she  nourished  and  brought 
up  her  young  in  great  calm,  till  the  day  that  Andy 
set  to  work  at  the  kitchen  chimney.  No  one  knew 
that  the  old  oven  had  a  special  flue  of  its  own,  and 
it  was  down  this  flue  that  the  soot  elected  to  come. 
I  was  fortunately  pervading  space  that  day,  and 
came  in  time  to  see  a  dense  black  cloud  issuing  from 
the  oven's  mouth  into  the  kitchen.  I  yelled  to  a 
vague  assembly  of  Bridgets  in  the  servants'  hall,  all 
of  whom  were  sufficiently  dirty  to  bear  a  little  more 
without  injury,  and  having  rushed  into  the  gloom 
they  promptly  slammed  the  door  on  the  unfortunate 
family  inside,  on  whom  then  rained  without  inter- 
mission, soot,  bricks,  and  jackdaws'  nests.  Having 
with  difficulty  got  the  door  open  again,  the  party 
was  disinterred,  quite  unhurt,  but  blacky  and  more 
entirely  mortified  than  anything  you  can  imagine. 
For  the  rest  of  the  day  '  Jubilee  '  cleaned  herself  and 
her  children  in  the  coldest  parts  of  the  house,  with 
ostentatious  fury.  She  was  offered  the  top  turf-box 
on  the  back  stairs,  but  instantly  refused,  and  finally 
settled  herself  in  a  stone  compartment  of  the  wine- 
cellar  ;    a  top  berth  this  time,  you  bet !  " 

V.  F.  M.  to  E.  (E.  S.     (Ross,  1901.) 

"  We  did  not  achieve  church  this  morning  without 
some  difficulty.  I  went  round  to  the  yard  after 
breakfast,  to  see  that  things  were  en  train,  and  was 
informed  by  Rickeen  that  he  had  not  fed  the  grey 


202  IRISH  MEMORIES 

pony,  as  he  had  found  a  weazel  in  the  oats,  *  and  sure 
there's  some  kind  of  a  pizen  in  thim.'  Being  unable 
to  combat  this  statement,  I  desired  that  the  pony 
should  be  given  hay.  This  was  done  but  at  the 
last  moment,  just  before  she  was  being  put  into 
the  shafts,  she  *  sthripped  a  shoe.'  Mama's  old  pony, 
Killola,  was  again  a  little  lame — nothing  for  it  but 
the  monster  Daisy,  browsing  in  the  lawn  with  her 
foal.  It  was  then  10.45.  I  had  on  a  voile  skirt  of 
stupendous  length,  with  a  floating  train,  my  best 
gloves  and  other  Sunday  trappings,  none  the  less 
must  I  help  Rick  to  harness  Daisy.  Then  the  trouble 
was  to  shut  her  foal  into  the  barn.  In  the  barn  was 
already  immured  the  donkey,  filled  with  one  fierce 
determination  to  flee  over  to  the  White  Field,  where 
was  Darcy's  donkey.  I  had  to  hold  Daisy,  and  combat 
her  maternal  instincts,  and  endure  her  ceaseless 
shriekings  ;  I  also  had  to  head  off  the  donkey,  which 
burst  from  the  barn,  with  gallopings  and  capers, 
while  Rickeen  stuffed  in  the  foal,  who,  like  its  mother, 
was  shrieking  at  the  top  of  its  voice.  I  also  was  weak 
with  laughing,  as  Rick's  language,  both  English  and 
Irish,  was  terrific,  and  the  donkey  very  ridiculous. 
Rick  finally  flailed  it  into  what  he  called  '  the  pig- 
shtyle,'  with  many  fervent  '  Hona-mig-a-dhiouls  ' 
(Rick  always  throws  in  '  mig,'  for  pure  intensity  and 
rhythm).  Then— ('  musha,  the  Lord  save  thim  that's 
in  a  hurry  ')— the  harness  had  to  be  torn  off  the  grey, 
in  the  loose  box,  *  for  fear  would  she  rub  the  collar 
agin  the  Major  '  (which  is  what  he  calls  the  manger). 
Then  we  pitched  Mama  on  to  the  car  and  got  off. 
Daisy,  almost  invisible  under  her  buffalo  mane,  as 
usual  went  the  pace,  and  we  got  in  at  the  First  Lesson, 
and  all  was  well." 

V.  F.  M.  to  E.  (E.  S.     (Ross.) 
"  I  had  a  long  walk  on  Thursday  in  search  of  turf, 


LETTERS  FROM  ROSS  208 

to  burn  with  logs.  A  sunset,  that  was  boiling  up  orange 
steam  on  to  grey  clouds,  kept  turning  me  round  all 
the  way  to  Esker.  At  the  turn  to  Pribaun  I  heard  a 
frightful  ruction  going  on.  Two  men  in  a  cart  using 
awful  language  at  the  tops  of  their  voices,  and  Pat 
Lydon,  on  the  fence,  giving  it  back  to  them,  asserting 
with  unnecessary  invocations,  that  there  was  nothing 
he  hated  like  *  thim  liars.'  The  men  drove  on  as  I 
came  up,  still  chewing  the  last  mouthful  of  curses  as 
they  passed,  and  Pat  came  forward  with  his  hat  off 
and  the  sweetest  smile. 

"  '  What  was  all  that  about  ?  '    said  I. 

"  '  Oh,  thim  was  just  tellin'  me  the  price  o'  pigs  in 
Ochtherard  yesterday.'  (This  in  a  tone  of  the  barest 
interest.)  '  And  how's  Mama  ?  Divil  a  one  in  the 
counthry's  gettin'  fat,  only  Mama  !  '  This  was,  of 
course,  the  highest  compliment,  and  I  recognised 
that  I  was  expected  to  enquire  no  more  into  the 
matter  of  the  price  of  pigs.  He  then  advised  me 
to  go  to  Jimmy  X.  (the  song-maker)  for  turf,  and  I 
found  him  at  Esker,  dreamily  contemplating  an 
immense  and  haggard-looking  sow,  on  whom,  no 
doubt,  he  was  composing  a  sonnet.  He  assured  me 
that  he  would  sell  Mama  a  rick  of  turf.  I  asked  how 
muth  was  in  the  rick. 

"  '  Well,  indeed  Miss,  of  that  matter  I  am  quite 
ignorant,  but  Jimmy  Darcy  can  value  it— (stand  in 
off  the  road  for  fear  anyone  would  hear  us  !)  '  (Then 
in  a  decorous  whisper)  '  But  him  and  me  is  not  very 
great  since  he  summonsed  me  little  girl  for  puUin' 
grass  in  the  Wood  of  Annagh ' 

"  There  followed  much  more,  in  a  small  and  depre- 
cating voice,  which,  when  told  to  Jim  Darcy,  he 
laughed  to  scorn. 

"  '  There's  not  a  basket,  no,  nor  a  sod  he  doesn't 
know  that's  in  that  rick  !  ' 

"  The  end  of  it  was  that  the  two  Jimmy s  wrangled 


204  IRISH  MEMORIES 

down  in  the  Bog  of  Pullagh  the  greater  part  of  the 
next  day,  and  nothing  more  than  that  has  been 
accomplished. 

"  Poor  old  Kitty  has  been  in  trouble.  I  have  not 
time  now  to  give  you  the  particulars,  but  will  only 
note  her  account  of  the  singular  effects  of  remorse 
upon  her,  as  unfolded  to  me  by  her,  subsequent  to 
the  interview  between  her  and  her  accuser  and  Katie. 

"  '  Faith  the  hair  is  dhroppin'  out  o'  me  head,  and 
the  skin  roUin'  off  the  soles  o'  me  feet,  with  the 
frettin'.  Whin  I  heard  what  Mrs.  Currey  said,  I 
went  back  to  that  woman  above,  an'  she  in  her  bed. 
I  dhragged  her  from  the  bed,'  (sob)  '  an'  she  shweatin,' 
(sob)  '  an'  I  brought  her  down  to  Mrs.  Currey  at  the 
Big  House ' 

"  I  have  been  doctoring  Honor  Joyce  up  in  Doone 
for  some  days.  She  has  had  agonising  pain,  which 
the  poor  creature  bore  like  a  Trojan.  I  asked  her 
to  describe  it,  and  she  said  feebly, 

"  '  I  couldn't  give  ye  any  patthern  of  it  indeed, 
but  it's  like  in  me  side  as  a  pairson  'd  be  polishin'  a 
boot,  and  he  with  a  brush  in  his  hand.'  Which  was 
indeed  enlightening.  Such  a  house  !  One  little  room, 
with  some  boards  nailed  together  for  a  bed,  in  which 
was  hay  with  blankets  over  it ;  a  goat  was  tethered 
a  few  feet  away,  and  while  I  was  putting  the  mustard- 
leaf  on,  there  came  suddenly,  and  apparently  from 
the  bed  itself,  '  a  cry  so  jubilant,  so  strange,'  that 
indicated  that  somewhere  under  the  bed  a  hen  had 
laid  an  egg. 

"  '  God  bless  her  !  '   says  Honor,  faintly. 

"  Next  I  heard  a  choking  cough  in  the  heart  of 
the  blankets.  It  was  a  sick  boy,  huddled  in  there  with 
his  mother — quite  invisible — ^buried  in  the  bedclothes, 
like  a  dog  ...  A  beautiful  day  yesterday,  fine 
and  clear  throughout.     To-day  the  storm  stormeth 


LETTERS  FROM  ROSS  205 

as  usual,  and  the  white  mist  people  are  rushing  after 
each  other  across  the  lawn,  sure  sign  of  hopeless  wet. 
Poor  Michael  (an  old  tenant)  died  on  Thursday  night 
— a  very  gallant,  quiet  end,  conscious  and  calm.  His 
daughter  did  not  mean  to  say  anything  remarkable 
when  she  told  me  that  he  died  '  as  quiet,  now  as 
quiet  as  a  little  fish  ' ;  but  those  were  her  words.  I 
went  up  there  to  see  his  old  wife,  and  coming  into  a 
house  black  with  people,  was  suddenly  confronted  with 
Michael's  body,  laid  out  in  the  kitchen.  His  son, 
three  parts  drunk,  advanced  and  delivered  a  loud, 
horrible  harangue  on  Michael  and  the  Martin  family. 
The  people  sat  like  owls,  listening,  and  we  retired  into 
a  room  where  were  whisky  bottles  galore,  and  the 
cream  of  the  company  ;  men  from  Galway,  respectably 
drunk,  and  magnificent  in  speech  .  .  .  The  funeral 
yesterday  to  which  I  went  (Michael  was  one  of  our 
oldest  and  most  faithful  friends)  was  only  a  shade 
less  horrifying.  At  all  events  the  pale,  tranced  face 
was  hidden,  and  the  living  people  looked  less  brutal 
without  that  terrific,  purified  presence " 

One  other  picture,  of  about  the  same  period,  may 
be  given,  and  in  connection  with  these  experiences 
two  things  may  be  remembered.  That  they  happened 
more  than  twenty  years  ago  ;  also,  that  among  these 
people,  primitive,  and  proud,  tenacious  of  conventions, 
and  faithful  to  their  dead,  a  want  of  hospitality  at  a 
funeral  implied  a  want  of  respect  for  the  one  who  had 
left  them. 

Unfortunately,  it  has  not  even  yet  been  learnt 
that  hospitality  is  not  necessarily  synonymous  with 
whisky. 

V.  F.  M.  to  E.  (E.  S.     (Ross,  1895.) 

"  William  L.'s  wife  died  suddenly,  having  had  a 


206  IRISH  MEMORIES 

dead  baby,  two  days  ago,  and  was  buried  yesterday, 
up  at  the  Chapel  on  the  Hill.  I  went  to  the  back  gate 
and  walked  with  the  funeral  from  there.  It  was  an 
extraordinary  scene.  The  people  who  had  relations 
buried  there,  roared  and  howled  on  the  graves,  and 
round  the  grave  where  Mrs.  L.  was  being  buried,  there 
was  a  perpetual  whining  and  moaning,  awfully  like 
the  tuning  of  fiddles  in  an  orchestra.  Drunken  men 
staggered  about ;  one  or  two  smart  relations  from 
Galway  flaunted  to  and  fro  in  their  best  clothes, 
occasionally  crossing  themselves,  and  three  keeners 
knelt  together  inside  the  inmost  ring  by  the  grave, 
with  their  hands  locked,  rocking,  and  crying  into 
each  other's  hoods,  three  awful  witches,  telling  each 
other  the  full  horrors  that  the  other  people  were  not 
competent  to  understand.  Tliere  was  no  priest,  but 
Mrs.  L.'s  brother  read  a  kind  of  Litany,  very  like  ours, 
at  top  speed,  and  all  the  people  answered.  Every 
Saint  in  the  calendar  was  called  on  to  save  her  and 
to  protect  her,  and  there  poor  William  stood,  with 
his  head  down,  and  his  hat  over  his  eyes.  It  was 
impressive,  very,  and  the  view  was  so  fresh  and  clean 
and  delightful  from  that  height.  The  thump  of  the 
clods  and  stones  on  the  coffin  was  a  sound  that  made 
one  shudder,  and  all  the  people  keened  and  cried 
at  it.  .  .  .  There  have  been  many  enquiries  for  you 
since  I  came  home.  Rickeen  thinks  he  never  seen 
the  like  of  a  lady  like  you  that  would  have  *  that 
undherstandin'  of  a  man's  work ;  and  didn't  I  see 
her  put  her  hand  to  thim  palings  and  lep  over  them  ! 
Faith  I  thought  there  was  no  ladies  could  be  as 
soople  as  our  own  till  I  seen  her.  But  indeed,  the 
both  o'  yee  proved  very  bad  that  yee  didn't  get  marri'd, 
and  all  the  places  yee  were  in  !  '  " 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

"  TOURS,    IDLE   TOURS  " 

The  adverse  opinion  of  her  old  and  once-trusted 
comrade,  Mrs.  X.,  in  the  matter  of  "  The  Delegate  " 
was  not  the  only  trial  of  the  kind  that  Mrs.  Martin 
had  to  face.  I  imagine  that  few  things  in  her  life  had 
given  her  as  much  pleasure  as  Violet's  success  as  a 
writer.  She  had  a  very  highly  cultured  taste,  and  her 
literary  judgment,  builded  as  it  was  upon  the  rock 
of  the  classics,  was  as  sound  as  it  was  fastidious.  Had 
a  conflict  been  pressed  between  it  and  maternal  pride, 
I  believe  the  latter  would  have  been  worsted.  Fortu- 
nately, her  critical  faculty  permitted  her  to  extend 
to  Martin's  writing  the  same  entire  approval  that  she 
bestowed  upon  her  in  all  other  regards.  It  is  usual 
to  make  merry  over  a  mother's  glorying  in  her  young, 
but  there  are  few  things  more  touching  than  to  see  a 
brilliant  creature,  whose  own  glories  are  past,  renew 
her  youth,  and  yet  forget  it,  in  the  rising  sun  of  a 
child's  success. 

No  one  expects  to  be  a  prophet  in  his  own  country, 
but  when  Martin  and  I  first  began  to  write,  we  have 
sometimes  felt  as  if  a  mean  might  have  been  dis- 
covered between  receiving  our  books  with  the  trumpets 
and  shawms,  suggested  by  Sir  William  Gregory,  and 
treating  them  as  regrettable  slips,  over  which  a  cloak 
of  kindly  silence  was  to  be  flung.     My  cousin  Nannie 


208  IRISH  MEMORIES 

and — though  in  less  degree — my  mother,  were  both 
out  for  trumpets,  and  the  silence  of  their  acquaint- 
ances (a  silence  that  Martin  and  I  did  not  fail  to  assure 
them  was  compassionate)  filled  them  with  wrath  that 
only  each  other's  sympathy  could  assuage.  (It  is, 
I  am  sure,  unnecessary  to  say  that  each  was  comfort- 
ingly aware  that  her  own  daughter  had  done  all  the 
work.     But  this  did  not  invalidate  the  sympathy.) 

The  formula  touching  the  superfluity  of  knee- 
buckles  to  the  Highlander  was,  however,  sustaining ; 
and  this  was  fortunate,  as  each  of  Martin's  articles, 
as  they  appeared  in  the  Worlds  called  it  into  requisition. 
If  "  The  Delegate  "  had  staggered  the  Highlanders, 
they  literally  reeled  when  "  Cheops  in  Connemara  " 
was  offered  for  their  learning  by  Mrs.  Martin,  who  had 
a  pathetic  hope,  never  realised,  that  some  day  they 
might  find  grace  and  understanding. 

It  was  of  "  Cheops  "  that  a  lady,  who  may  be  called 
Mrs.  Brown,  said  to  my  cousin  Nannie, 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Martin,  I  loved  it !  It  was  so  nice ! 
I  couldn't  quite  understand  it,  though  I  read  it  twice 
over,  but  I  showed  it  to  Mr.  Brown,  and  he  solved  the 
problem  !  " 

Wonderful  man,  as  Martin  commented  when  she 
wrote  the  story  to  me. 

It  was  this  same  Mr.  Brown  whose  criticism  of  the 
"  Irish  Cousin,"  wrung  from  him  by  Mrs.  Martin, 
was  so  encouraging. 

"  I  found  it,"  he  wrote,  "  highly  imaginative,  but 
not  nonsensical,  unusual  in  a  work  of  legendary 
character.     In  fact,  it  is  not  bosh  !  " 

The  singular  spring  from  the  clouds  to  every  day's 
most  common  slang  was  typical  of  good  Mr.  Brown. 
He  is  now  beyond  the  clouds,  or,  in  any  case,  is,  I 
am  sure,  where  he  will  not  be  offended  if  I  recall  one 
or  two  of  his  pulpit  utterances.     In  my  diary  at  this 


'^ TOURS,  IDLE  TOURS''  209 

time  I  find  :  "  Interesting  sermon.  Mr.  Brown  told 
us  that '  a  sin,  though  very  great,  is  not  as  great  as  one 
that  exceeds  it ;  but  remember  that  sin  can  only- 
find  entrance  in  a  heart  prepared  for  it,  even  as  matches 
strike  only  on  the  box.  And  oh  friends,  it  is  useless 
to  trust  in  those  whose  names  are  fragrant  in  Christian 
society  to  pull  you  through.'  " 

Martin  was  much  attached  to  Mr.  Brown,  who  was 
as  kind  a  man,  and  as  worthy  a  parson,  as  ever  was 
great-grandson  to  Mrs.  Malaprop.  In  a  letter  to  me 
she  says  : 

"  Last  Sunday's  sermon  was  full  of  '  jewels  five 
words  long.'  I  noticed  first  an  allusion  to  Jacob's 
perfidy  to  Esau.  '  Which  of  us.  Beloved,  would  not 
have  blushed  if  we  had  been  in — in — in  the  shoes  in 
which  Jacob  was  then  living  ?  Or  if  we  had  been  his 
mother  ?  ' 

"  There  was  something  in  this  so  suggestive  of  the 
tale  of  the  Old  Woman,  who  with  her  family,  lived  in 
a  shoe,  that  I  found  my  seat  in  the  front  row  of  the 
choir  inconvenient,  more  especially  when  one  recol- 
lected that  in  Jacob's  time  sandals  were  the  usual  wear. 
Mr.  B.  then  proceeded  to  tell  us  of  '  The  Greek  Chap  ' 
who  held  the  gunwale  of  the  boat  and  '  when  his 
right  hand  was  chopped  off,  held  it  with  his  left,  and 
that  being  cut  off,  caught  it  in  his  teeth.  Then  his 
head  was  cut  off  I  Think  of  him.  Beloved,  who,  when 
his  head  was  cut  off,  still  with  his  teeth  held  the  boat 
impossible  !  ' 

"  The  last  word  was  doubtless  the  nearest  he  could 
get  to  *  immoveable.'  At  this  two  prominent  members 
of  the  choir  laughed,  long  and  agonisingly,  as  did 
many  others.  I  never  smiled.  Had  you  been  there  I 
might  have  been  unequal  to  the  strain,  but  I  felt  sorry 
for  poor  Mr.  Brown,  as  it  was  only  a  slip  to  say  '  head  ' 
for  '  hand.'     He  got  through  the  rest  pretty  well, 

p 


210  IRISH  MEMORIES 

only  saying,  a  little  later,  that  we  should  not  '  ask 
the  Almighty  for  mercies  to  be  doled  out  to  us,  like 
a  pauper's  gruel,  in  half-pints.'  He  gave  us  another 
striking  metaphor,  a  few  Sundays  ago.  *  Dear  friends, 
to  what  shall  I  liken  the  Day  of  Resurrection,  and  the 
rising  of  us,  miserable  sinners,  from  the  grave  ?  Will 
it  not  be  like  poor,  wretched,  black  chimney-sweeps, 
sticking  their  heads  up  out  of  chimneys  ! '  " 

Martin's  pitifulness  to  incapacity,  whether  mental 
or  physical,  could  be  almost  exasperating  sometimes 
in  its  wide  charity.  Failure  of  any  kind  appealed  to 
her  generosity.  Her  consideration  and  tenderness 
for  the  limitations  and  disabilities  of  old  age  were 
very  wonderful  and  beautiful  things,  and  no  one  ever 
knew  her  to  triumph  over  a  fallen  foe.  For  myself,  I 
am  of  opinion  that,  with  some  foes,  this  is  a  mistake, 
akin  to  being  heroic  at  a  dentist's.  However,  the 
question  need  not  now  be  discussed. 

That  "  An  Irish  Cousin "  had  satisfied  Messrs. 
Bentley's  expectations  was  evidenced  by  a  letter  from 
Mr.  R.  Bentley  in  October,  1889,  in  which  he  suggested 
that  we  should  write  a  three-volume  novel  for  them, 
and  offered  us  £100  down  and  £125  on  the  second  500 
copies.  We  were  then  at  work  on  a  short  novel  that 
we  had  been  commissioned  to  write.  This  was 
"  Naboth's  Vineyard,"  which,  after  various  adven- 
tures, was  first  published  by  Spencer  Blackett,  in 
October,  1891.  The  story  had  had  a  preliminary 
canter  in  the  Lady's  Pictorial  Christmas  number  as 
a  short  story,  which  we  called  "  Slide  Number  42." 
It  was  sufficiently  approved  of  to  encourage  us  to 
fill  it  up  and  make  a  novel  of  it.  As  a  book  it  has  had 
a  curious  career.  We  had  sold  the  copyright  without 
reservation,  and  presently  it  was  passed  on  to  Mr. 
Blackett.  We  next  heard  of  it  in  the  hands  of  Griffith 
and  Farran.     Then  it  appeared  as  a  "  yellow-back  " 


I        Q 


''TOURS,  IDLE  TOURS''  211 

at  2s,  Tauchnitz  then  produced  it ;  finally,  not  very 
long  ago,  a  friend  sent  us  a  copy,  bound  rather  like  a 
manual  of  devotion,  with  silver  edges  to  the  pages, 
which  she  had  bought,  new,  for  4d. ;  which  makes  one 
fear  that  Ahab's  venture  had  not  turned  out  too  well. 
It  was  a  story  of  the  Land  League,  and  the  actors  in 
it  were  all  of  the  peasant  class.  It  was  very  well 
reviewed,  and  was,  in  fact,  treated  by  the  Olympians, 
the  Spectator y  the  Saturday  Review,  the  Times,  etc., 
with  a  respect  and  a  seriousness  that  almost  alarmed 
us.  It  seemed  that  we  had  been  talking  prose  without 
knowing  it,  and  we  were  so  gratified  by  the  discovery 
that  we  decided  forthwith  to  abandon  all  distractions 
and  plunge  solemnly,  and  with  single-hearted  industry, 
into  the  construction  of  the  three- volume  novel  desired 
by  Messrs.  Bentley. 

This  was  not,  however,  as  simple  a  matter  as  it 
seemed,  and  the  way  was  far  from  clear.  I  was  doing 
illustrations  for  a  children's  story  (and  a  very  delight- 
ful one),  "  Clear  as  the  Noonday,"  by  my  cousin, 
Mrs.  James  Penrose,  and  I  was  also  illustrating  an 
old  Irish  song  of  Crimean  times,  *'  The  Kerry  Recruit," 
which  has  been  more  attractively  brought  to  the  notice 
of  the  public  by  another  cousin,  Mr.  Harry  Plunket 
Greene.  Martin  was  still  enmeshed  in  her  World 
articles  and  in  Ross  affairs  generally,  and  though  we 
discussed  the  "  serious  novel  "  intermittently  it  did 
not  advance. 

Ross  was  by  this  time  restored  to  the  normal  con- 
dition of  Irish  country  houses,  comfortable,  hos- 
pitable, unconventional,  an  altogether  pleasant  place 
to  be  in,  and  with  visitors  coming  and  going,  it  was  not 
as  easy  as  it  had  been  for  the  daughter  in  residence 
to  devote  herself  to  literature,  especially  serious 
literature. 

During  one  of  my  many  visits  there,  the  honourable 

p  2 


212  IRISH  MEMORIES 

and  unsolicited  office  of  domestic  chaplain  had  been 
conferred  upon  me.  Martin  has  written  that  "  Hymns 
and  Family  Prayers  are  often  receptacles  for  stale 
metaphor  and  loose  phraseology  ;  out  of  them  comes 
a  religion  clothed  to  suffocation  in  Sunday  clothes 
and  smelling  of  pew-openers.  Tate  and  Brady  had 
much  to  answer  for  in  this  respect ;  some  of  their 
verses  give  at  once  the  peculiar  feeling  of  stiff  neck 
produced  by  a  dull  sermon  and  a  high  pew." 

In  this  condemnation,  however,  the  family  prayers 
at  Ross  were  not  included.  When  I  knew  them  they 
took  the  form  of  selections  from  the  Morning  Service, 
and  included  the  Psalms  for  the  day  ;  nothing  more 
simple  and  suitable  could  be  imagined ;  nevertheless, 
there  were  times  when  they  might,  indisputably,  have 
been  more  honoured  in  the  breach  than  in  the 
observance.  I  have  already  alluded  to  my  cousin 
Nannie's  sense  of  humour,  and  its  power  of  over- 
whelming her  in  sudden  catastrophe.  On  some 
forgotten  occasion,  one  of  those  contretemps  peculiar 
to  the  moment  of  household  devotion  had  taken 
place,  and  the  remembrance  of  this,  recurring,  as 
it  did,  daily,  with  the  opening  of  the  Prayer-book, 
rarely  failed  to  render  impossible  for  her  a 
decorous  reading  of  the  prayers.  This  was  the 
more  disastrous,  because,  like  very  many  of  "  The 
Chief's  "  descendants,  she  specially  enjoyed  reading 
aloud.  With  much  reluctance  she  deputed  her 
office  to  Martin,  but,  unhappily,  some  aspect  of  the 
affair  (which  had,  it  may  be  admitted,  some  that 
were  sufficiently  absurd)  would  tickle  the  deputy, 
and  prayers  at  Ross,  which,  as  I  have  said,  included 
the  Psalms  for  the  day,  ended,  more  than  once,  at 
very  short  notice.  I  may  say  that  during  my  tenure 
of  the  office,  although  I  could  not,  like  Martin,  repeat 
all   the   Psalms   from   memory,   I   acquitted   myself 


''TOURS,   IDLE   TOURS''  218 

respectably,  if  quite  without  distinction.  This,  as 
far  as  I  know,  has  been  achieved  by  but  one  reader, 
who  will,  I  trust,  forgive  me  if  I  abandon,  for  once, 
the  effort  to  refrain  from  mention  of  existing  contem- 
poraries, and  quote  Martin's  account  of  her  success. 

V.  F.  M.  to  E.  (E.  S.     (Ross,  1890.) 

"  None  of  us  were  able  to  go  to  church  to-day, 
the  weather  being  detestable  and  Mama's  eyes  much 
inflamed  by  gout.  So  we  had  prayers  at  home. 
Quite  early  in  the  morning  Mama  had  strong  convul- 
sions at  the  very  thought,  and  I  compelled  her  to 
delegate  Katie  for  the  office  of  chaplain.  Muriel 
and  her  English  nurse,  Hoskins,  were  summoned,  and 
before  they  came  Mama  stipulated  that  the  Psalms 
should  be  read.  Katie  consented,  on  condition  that 
Mama  should  not  try  to  read  her  verse,  and  after  some 
resistance.  Mama  gave  in.  In  came  Hoskins,  looking 
the  picture  of  propriety,  with  a  crimson  nose,  and 
Muriel,  armed  with  a  Child's  Bible,  and  Katie  made  a 
start.  Will  you  believe  that  Mama  could  not  refrain, 
but  nipped  in  with  the  second  verse,  in  a  voice  of  the 
most  majestic  gravity.  The  fourth  verse  was  her  next, 
and  in  that  I  detected  effort,  and  prepared  for  the 
worst.  At  the  sixth  came  collapse,  and  a  stifled 
anguish  of  laughter.     I  said  in  tones  of  ice, 

"  *  I'm  afraid  your  eye  is  hurting  you  ?  ' 

"  *  Yes,'  gasped  Mama. 

"  Katie  swept  on  without  a  stagger,  and  thus  the 
situation  was  saved.  I  think  Hoskins  would  consider 
laughter  of  the  kind  so  incredible  that  she  would 
more  easily  believe  that  Mama  always  did  this  when 
her  eye  hurt  her.  Katie  slew  Mama,  hip  and  thigh, 
afterwards,  as  indeed,  her  magnificent  handling  of  the 
affair  entitled  her  to  do." 


214  iniSH  MEMORIES 

In  spite  of  our  excellent  resolutions,  the  serious 
novel  was  again  put  on  the  shelf,  and  the  next  work 
we  undertook  was  a  tour  on  behalf  of  the  Lady's 
Pictorial.  This  was  provoked  by  a  guide-book  to 
Connemara,  which  was  sent  to  Martin  by  an  English 
friend.  She  wrote  to  me  and  said,  "  E.  H.  has  sent 
me  an  intolerably  vulgar  guide  to  Connemara,  and 
suggests  that  you  and  I  should  try  and  do  something 
to  take  its  place.  It  is  written  as  it  were  in  descrip- 
tion of  a  tour  made  by  an  ingenuous  family  party. 
'  Jack,'  very  manly  ;  the  Young  Ladies,  very  ladylike  ; 
a  kind  and  humorous  mother,  etc.  '  Jack '  is  much 
the  most  revolting.  The  informant  of  the  party 
gives  many  interesting  facts  about  the  disappearance 
of  the  Martins  from  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  deplores 
the  breaking  up  of  the  property  ^  put  together  by 
CromwelVs  soldier  '  !  " 

I  think  it  was  this  culminating  offence  that  decided 
us  to  supplement  the  information  supplied  to  the 
ingenuous  family.  Our  examination  into  the  condi- 
tions of  Connemara,  and  our  findings  on  its  scenery, 
hotels,  roads,  etc.,  were  not  accomplished  without 
considerable  effort.  In  1890  there  was  no  railway 
to  Clifden,  hotels  were  few  and  indifferent,  means 
of  communication  scant  and  expensive.  We  hired  a 
jennet  and  a  governess-cart,  and  strayed  among  the 
mountains  like  tinkers,  stopping  where  we  must, 
taking  chances  for  bed  and  board.  It  was  un- 
comfortable and  enjoyable,  and  I  imagine  that  our 
account  of  it,  which  was  published  as  a  book  by 
Messrs.  W.  H.  Allen,  is  still  consulted  by  the  tourist 
who  does  not  require  either  mental  improvement  or 
reliable  statistics. 

In  the  autumn  of  '91  we  went,  by  arrangement 
with  the  Lady^s  Pictorial,  to  Bordeaux,  to  investigate, 
and  to  give  our  valuable  views  upon  the  vintage  in 


'^  TOURS.  IDLE  TOURS''  215 

that  district.  This  developed  into  a  very  interesting 
expedition ;  we  had  introductions  that  opened  to  us 
the  gloomy  and  historic  portals  of  the  principal 
"  Caves  "  ;  we  saw  claret  in  all  its  stages  (some  of 
them  horrible) ;  we  assisted  at  a  "  Danse  de  Vendange,'^ 
a  sort  of  Harvest  Home,  at  which  we  trod  strange 
measures  with  the  vintagers,  feeling,  as  we  swung 
and  sprang  to  the  squeals  of  pipes  and  fiddles,  as 
though  we  were  in  comic  opera  ;  we  gained  a  pleasing 
insight  into  the  charm  of  French  hospitality,  and  we 
acquired — and  this  was  the  tour's  only  drawback — ^a 
taste  for  the  very  best  claret  that  we  have  since  found 
unfortunately  superfluous. 

These  articles,  also,  were  republished  with  the  title 
"  In  the  Vine  Country,"  Martin's  suggestion  of  "  From 
Cork  to  Claret "  being  rejected  as  too  subtle  for  the 
public.  Such,  at  least,  was  the  publishers'  opinion, 
which  is  often  pessimistic  as  to  the  intelligence  of  the 
public. 

Since  I  am  on  the  subject  of  our  tours,  I  may  as 
well  deal  with  them  all.  It  was  in  June,  1893,  that 
we  rode  through  Wales,  at  the  behest  of  Black  and 
White.  The  articles,  with  my  drawings,  were  subse- 
quently published  by  Messrs.  Blackwood,  and  were 
entitled  "  Beggars  on  Horseback."  We  were  a  little 
more  than  a  week  on  the  road,  and  were  mounted  on 
hireling  ponies  and  hireling  saddles  (facts  that  may 
enlist  the  sympathies  of  those  who  have  a  knowledge 
of  such  matters).  I  may  here  admit  that,  in  spite  of 
certain  obvious  advantages  of  a  literary  kind,  these 
amateur-gipsy  tours  are  not  altogether  as  enjoyable 
as  our  accounts  of  them  might  lead  the  artless  reader 
to  imagine.  They  demand  iron  endurance,  the  temper 
of  Mark  Tapley,  and  the  Will  to  Survive  of  Robinson 
Crusoe.  I  do  not  say  that  we  possessed  these  attri- 
butes, but  we  realised  their  necessity. 


216  IRISH  MEMORIES 

Only  once  more,  and  in  this  same  year,  1893,  did 
we  adventure  on  a  tour.  This  time  again  on  behalf 
of  the  Lady's  Pictorial,  and,  at  our  own  suggestion, 
to  Denmark.  We  had  offered  the  Editor  four  alter- 
natives, Lapland  or  Denmark,  Killarney  or  Kiel. 
He  chose  Denmark,  and  I  have,  ever  since  1914, 
deeply  regretted  that  we  did  not  insist  on  Kiel. 

The  artistic  and  social  difficulties  in  dealing  with 
this  class  of  work  have  not,  in  my  experience,  been 
sufficiently  set  forth.  We  were  provided  with  intro- 
ductions, obtained  variously,  mainly  through  our 
own  friends.  We  were  given,  editorially,  to  under- 
stand that  the  events,  be  they  what  they  may,  were 
ever  to  be  treated  from  the  humorous  point  of  view. 
"  Pleasant "  is  the  word  employed,  which  means 
pleasant  for  the  pampered  reader,  but  not  necessarily 
for  anyone  else. 

Well,  "  pleasant  '*  things,  resulting  from  some  of 
these  kind,  private  introductions,  undoubtedly 
occurred,  but  it  is  a  poor  return  for  full-handed 
hospitality  to  swing  its  bones,  as  on  a  gibbet,  in  a 
newspaper.  Many  have  been  the  priceless  occurrences 
that  we  have  had  to  bury  in  our  own  bosoms,  or,  in 
writing  them  down,  write  ourselves  down  also  as 
dastards.  It  is  some  consolation  to  be  able  to  say 
this  here  and  now.  For  all  I  know,  there  may  still 
be  those  who  consider  that  Martin  Ross  and  E.  (E. 
Somerville  treated  them,  either  by  omission  or  com- 
mission, with  ingratitude.  If  so,  let  me  now  assure 
them  that  they  little  know  how  they  were  spared. 


CHAPTER   XIX 

OF    DOGS 

Throughout  these  very  discursive  annals  I  have 
tried  to  keep  in  remembrance  a  lesson  that  I  learnt 
a  few  years  ago  from  a  very  interesting  book  of 
Mr.  Seton  Thompson's  called,  I  think,  "  In  the  Arctic 
Prairies."  In  it  he  began  by  saying  that  travellers' 
accounts  of  their  sufferings  from  mosquitoes  were  liable 
to  degenerate  into  a  weariness  to  the  reader  ;  therefore 
he  determined  to  mass  all  he  had  suffered  into  one 
chapter.  Thenceforward,  when  the  remembrance  of 
the  mosquitoes  became  too  poignant  for  endurance, 
a  pause  came  in  the  narrative,  and  a  footnote  said 
(with  an  audible  groan),  "  See  Chapter  So  and  So." 
Thus  it  has  been  with  me  and  dogs.  This  is  Chapter  So 
and  So,  and  I  honourably  invite  the  Skip  of  Defiance 
already  several  times  advocated. 

M.  Maeterlinck  has  written  of  dogs  with  deep 
discernment,  yet  not,  I  think,  in  quite  the  right 
spirit.  No  dogs,  save  perhaps  hounds,  should  speak 
of  "  Master,"  or  "  Mistress."  The  relationship  should 
be  as  that  of  a  parent ;  at  farthest,  that  of  a  fond 
governess.  R.  L.  Stevenson's  essay,  "  The  Character 
of  Dogs,"  treats  of  dogs  with  all  his  enchanting 
perception  and  subtlety,  and  contains  the  matchless 
phrase    "  That   mass   of  carneying   affectations,   the 


218  IRISH  MEMORIES 

female  dog  '* ;  yet  memorable  as  the  phrase  is,  I 
would  venture  to  protest  against  the  assumption 
that  is  implicit  in  it,  namely,  that  affectation  is  a 
thing  to  be  reprobated.  Martin's  and  my  opinion 
has  ever  been  that  it  is  one  of  the  most  bewitching 
of  qualities.  I  believe  I  rather  enjoy  it  in  young  ladies  ; 
I  adore  it  in  "  the  female  dog."  But  it  must  be  genuine 
affectation.  The  hauteur  of  a  fox  terrier  lady  with  a 
stranger  cad-dog  is  made  infinitely  more  precious  by 
the  certainty  that  when  the  Parent's  eye  is  removed, 
it  will  immediately  become  transmuted  into  the  most 
unbridled  familiarity. 

I  recall  a  sunny  summer  morning  when,  on  the 
lawn  tennis  ground  at  Brisbane,  Martin  and  I  received 
a  visit  from  the  then  parson  of  the  parish,  and  from 
his  large  black  retriever.  Candy  and  Sheila,  my  fox 
terriers,  ladies  both,  received  it  also,  but  in  their 
case,  with  a  dignity  that  we  could  not  hope  to  emulate. 
Shortly  after  the  interview  opened,  chancing  to  look 
round,  I  beheld  two  motionless  round  white  mounds, 
hedgehog  in  attitude,  super-hedgehog  in  sentiment, 
buried  in  profoundest  slumber.  Round  the  mounds, 
with  faint  yelps,  in  brief  rushes,  panting  with  adora- 
tion, with  long  pink  tongue  flapping,  and  white  teeth 
flashing,  fore-legs  wide  apart  and  flung  flat  on  the 
grass,  went  the  parson's  retriever.  With  sealed  eyes 
the  ladies  slept  on.  Yet,  when  Martin  and  the  parson 
and  I  had  strayed  on  into  the  flower  garden,  I  cannot 
conceal  the  fact  that  both  the  Clara  Vere  de  Veres 
abandoned  themselves  to  a  Maenad  activity  that  took 
the  amazed  and  deeply  gratified  retriever  as  its  focal 
point,  and  might  have  given  effective  hints  to 
any  impersonator  of  Salome  dancing  before  King 
Herod. 

I  have  ever  been  faithful  to  two  breeds,  foxhounds, 
and  fox  terriers,  and,  as  I  look  back  over  a  long  series 


OF  DOGS  219 

of  Grandes  Passions^  I  see  Ranger  and  Rachel  and 
Science,  with  their  faithful,  beautiful  hound-faces, 
waving  their  sterns  to  me  through  the  mists  of 
memory,  and  The  Puppet,  and  Dot,  and,  paramount 
among  them  all,  the  little  "  Head-dog,"  Candy,  all 
waiting  in  the  past,  to  be  remembered  and  praised, 
and  petted.  Mention  has  already  been  made  of 
The  Puppet's  brief  but  brilliant  life.  Martin  has 
summed  him  up  as  "  an  engaging  but  ill-mannered 
little  thing,"  but  this  dispassionate  assessment  did 
not  interfere  with  her  affection  for  him.  Some  time 
after  his  early  and  tragic  death,  she  sent  me  a  little 
MS.  book  entitled  "  Passages  in  the  Life  of  a  Puppet, 
By  its  Mother,  Being  some  ^Extracts  from  Her  Corre- 
spondence." These,  with  her  comments,  elucidatory 
and  otherwise,  I  still  preserve,  and  they  are  often 
both  entertaining  and  instructive.  They  are,  on  the 
whole,  of  too  esoteric  a  nature  for  these  pages,  but 
I  may  offer  one  extract  that  may  be  regarded 
as  not  unsuitable  by  that  influential  person,  "  the 
general  reader."  This  treats  of  The  Puppet  in  the 
capacity  of  parent,  and  is  endorsed  by  Martin,  "  The 
Puppet  in  his  own  Home  Circle  is  unamiable,  and  is 
much  disliked  by  his  wife." 

"  His  attitude  is  one  of  curiosity  and  suspicion. 
When  I  go  to  see  Dot  and  the  puppies,  he  creeps  after 
me,  walking  with  the  most  exaggerated  caution  on 
three  legs,  one  being  held  high  in  air,  in  the  pose  of 
one  who  says  *  Hark  ! '  or  *  Hist !  '  Sometimes  he 
forgets,  and  says  it  with  a  hind-leg,  but  there  are 
never  more  than  three  paws  on  the  ground.  Meantime, 
the  Mamma,  with  meek,  beaming  eyes  fixed  on  me, 
keeps  up  a  low  and  thunderous  growl.  At  other  times, 
he  scrutinises  the  family  from  a  distance,  severely, 
sitting  erect,  like  one  of  Landseer's  lions  (but  the 
pose  is  grander),  with  ears  inside  out,  as  cleared  for 


220  IRISH  MEMORIES 

action.     I  dither "     The  extract  ends  thus,  with 

some  abruptness,  and  recognising  the  truth  of  the 
final  statement,  I  will  leave  the  Puppet  and  his 
Passages,  with  an  apology  for  having  alluded  to  them. 
We  have,  sometimes,  thought  of  writing  a  dog-novel 
(being  attracted  by  the  thought  of  calling  it  "  Kennel- 
worth  "),  but  we  were  forced  to  recognise  that  society 
is  not  yet  ripe  for  it. 

In  fact,  the  position  of  dogs  requires  readjustment. 
It  is  marked  by  immoderation.  To  declaim  that 
dogs  should  be  kept  in  their  Proper  Place,  is  merely 
to  invite  to  battle.  One  thing  I  will  say  as  touching 
the  case  of  dogs  whose  "  proper  place  "  has  been,  as 
with  myself,  the  bosoms  of  their  respective  owners. 
There  comes  to  those  owners  something  catastrophic, 
a  death  or  a  disaster,  or  even  some  such  household 
throe  as  a  wedding  or  a  ball.  The  dogs  are  forgotten. 
The  belief  that  has  been  fostered  in  them  of  their  own 
importance  remains  unshaken-,  Their  intelligent  con- 
sciousness of  individual  life  is  as  intense  as  ever. 
Even  if  the  amazing  stories  of  dog-intelligence,  that 
were  heard  a  few  years  ago,  were  untrue,  it  is  im- 
possible to  deny  to  dogs  whose  minds  have  been 
humanised  a  share  of  comprehension  that  is  practically 
human.  Yet,  when  the  Big  Moment  comes  in  the  life 
of  the  house,  the  dogs  are  brushed  aside  and  ignored. 
One  is  sometimes  dimly,  remotely  aware,  through 
one's  own  misery  or  pre-occupation,  of  the  lonely, 
bewildered  little  fellow-being  who  has  suddenly  become 
insignificant,  but  that  is  all.  One  gives  him  to  eat 
and  drink,  but  one  has  withdrawn  one's  soul  from 
him,  and  he  knows  it,  and  wonders  why,  and  suffers. 
It  is  inevitable,  but,  like  many  an  inevitable  thing, 
it  is  not  fair. 

After  Dot,  in  the  succession  of  fox  terriers,  came 
Musk,  who  was  unto  Dot  as  a  daughter,  so  much  so, 


OF  DOGS  321 

indeed,  that  I  find  it  said  in  my  diary  that  Dot,  like 
the  Abbess  in  the  Ballad  of  the  Nun, 

" loved  her  more  and  more, 

And  as  a  mark  of  perfect  trust 
Made  her  the  Keeper  of  the  Ashpit." 

Musk  belonged,  strictly  speaking,  to  my  sister ;  her 
name,  through  modifications  that  might  interest  an 
etymologist,  but  no  one  else,  became  more  usually. 
Muck,  or  Pucket.  As  the  Pucket  she  reigned  for  many 
years  jointly  with  her  eldest  daughter,  Candy,  and 
with  a  later  daughter.  Sheila,  on  the  steps  of  the 
throne.  The  Pucket  had  a  singular  fear  of  anyone 
who  approached  her  without  speaking.  If,  on  a  return 
after  the  briefest  absence,  the  friend,  or  even  the 
Mother,  received  her  welcoming  barks  in  silence, 
yet  continued  to  advance  towards  her — about  which 
there  may  be  conceded  to  be  something  fateful— the 
Pucket's  voice  would  falter,  she  would  retreat  with 
ever  increasing  speed,  and  I  have  seen  her,  when 
further  retirement  was  impossible,  plunge  herself  into 
a  bush  and  thence  cry  for  help.  One  of  her  daughters 
will  sometimes  act  in  this  way,  and  I  have  known 
other  dogs  to  behave  similarly.  On  what,  then,  does 
their  apprehension  of  their  friends  rely  ?  Not  sight, 
nor  smell ;  not  voice,  as  a  deaf  dog  recognises  his 
friends  ?  I  can  only  suppose  that  the  unwonted  lack 
of  response  suggests  a  mental  overthrow,  and  that 
Musk  felt  that  nothing  less  than  the  failure  of  their 
reason  would  silence  her  Mother  or  her  Aunt. 

On  another  occasion,  and  a  more  legitimate  one,  I 
have  seen  Musk's  self-control  overthrown.  An  elderly 
lady-guest,  now  dead,  whose  name  and  demeanour 
equally  suggested  the  sobriquet  of  "  The  Bedlamite," 
undertook  one  evening  to  sing  for  us.  Musk,  in 
common  with  all  our  dogs,  was  inured  to,  practically, 


222  IRISH  MEMORIES 

any  form  of  music,  but  when  the  Bedlamite  advanced 
with  a  concertina  to  the  middle  of  the  drawing-room, 
and,  with  Nautch-like  wavings  of  the  instrument, 
began  to  shriek— there  is  no  other  word— Salaman's 
entirely  beautiful  setting  of  "  I  arise  from  dreams  of 
thee,*'  to  the  sole  accompaniment  of  the  concertina's 
shrill  wheezings,  the  Pucket,  after  some  cautious 
and  horrified  attention,  retired  stealthily  under  the 
table,  and  uttered  low  and  windy  howls. 

But  there  are  so  many  points  in  connection  with 
which,  as  it  must  seem  to  dogs,  our  behaviour  is  inscrut- 
able. One  may  take  the  case  of  baths,  which  must 
daily  mystify  them.  As  I  put  forth  to  the  bath-room, 
I  can  nearly  always  recognise  in  my  dogs  some  arti- 
ficiality of  manner,  an  assumption  of  indifference, 
that  they  are  far  from  feeling.  They  regard  me  with 
bright,  wary  eyes,  and  remain  in  their  baskets,  still 
as  birds  on  eggs.  "  She  goes,"  they  say,  "  to  that 
revolting  and  unnecessary  torture,  known  as  Washy- 
washy.  Why  she  inflicts  it  upon  herself  is  known  to 
Heaven  alone.  For  our  part,  let  us  keep  perfectly 
quiet,  nor  tempt  the  incalculable  impulses  that  rule 
her  in  these  matters." 

I  have  never  been  addicted  to  dachshunds,  but  I 
must  make  mention  of  one,  Koko ;  incomparable 
as  a  lady  of  fashion,  as  a  fag  at  lawn  tennis,  and  as  a 
thief.  She  also  had  a  gift,  not  without  its  uses,  of 
biting  beggars.  Her  owner,  my  cousin  Doctor  Violet 
Coghill,  who  was  in  Koko's  time  a  medical  student, 
had  a  practice  in  dogbites  more  extended  than  even  her 
enthusiasm  desired.  Once,  when  a  patient  came  to 
be  dressed  and  compensated,  Koko  was  collared, 
chained,  and,  to  make  assurance  doubly  sure,  tucked 
under  the  doctor's  left  arm.  Thence,  during  the 
inspection  of  the  wound,  she  stretched  a  neck  like 
a  snake,  and  bit  the  patient  again.     No  dinner-table 


OF  DOGS  238 

was  safe  from  her  depredations.  "  Koko  is  around  the 
coasts !  '*  parlourmaids  have  been  heard  to  cry, 
flying  to  their  dining-rooms,  as  merchant-brigs  might 
fly  to  harbour  upon  a  rumour  of  Paul  Jones.  She  and 
another,  my  sister's  Max,  were  the  first  dachshunds 
in  Carbery.  I  have  heard  Max  discussed  by  little 
boys  in  Skibbereen. 

"  'Tis  a  daag  !  " 

"  'Tis  not  I  " 

»  'Tis  !  " 

"  'Tis  not  I     'Tis  a  Sarpint !  " 

Another  and  more  sophisticated  critic  decided  that 
it  was  "  a  little  running  sofa."  But  this  was  in- 
tentionally facetious  ;  the  serpent  theory  expressed 
a  genuine  conviction. 

It  was  at  one  time  said  of  my  family,  generally, 
that  we  were  kept  by  a  few  dogs  for  their  convenience 
and  entertainment,  and  later  there  was  a  period  when 
amongst  ourselves  and  our  cousins  we  could  muster 
about  fourteen,  in  variety,  mainly  small  dogs.  We 
decided  to  have  a  drag-hunt,  and  in  order  to  ensure 
some  measure  of  success— (I  ask  all  serious  Hound-men 
to  turn  away  their  eyes  from  beholding  iniquity) — I 
desired  my  huntsman,  an  orderly-minded  Englishman, 
to  bring  Rachel  and  Admiral  to  run  the  drag. 

"  Oh,  Master,  you  wouldn't  ask  them  pore  'ounds 
to  do  such  a  thing  ?  "   said  G. 

I  said  I  would ;  that  they  were  old,  and  steady  ; 
in  short,  I  apologised,  but  was  firm. 

G.  asked  coldly  if  a  couple  would  be  enough. 

I  said  quite  enough,  adding  that  all  the  ladies'  and 
gentlemen's  dogs  were  coming. 

G.  said,  "  Oh,  them  cur-dogs " 

He  then  asked,  with  resignation,  the  hour  of  "  the 
meet,"  and  retired. 

At  the  appointed  time  he  was  there,  with  Rachel 


224  IRISH  MEMORIES 

and  Admiral,  and  two  other  couples,  his  principles 
having  succumbed  to  the  temptation  of  a  hunt  in 
June.  The  fourteen  cur-dogs,  ranging  from  griffons, 
through  fox  terriers  and  spaniels,  to  a  deerhound, 
were  there  too,  with  a  suitable  number  of  proprietors, 
and  the  hare  having  been  given  a  fair  start,  the  pack 
was  laid  on.  The  run  began  badly,  as  the  smallest 
dogs,  believing  the  time  had  come  to  indulge  their 
long-nourished  detestation  of  the  hounds,  flung  them- 
selves upon  the  blameless  Rachel  and  her  party,  who, 
for  some  distance,  conscientiously  ran  the  line,  with 
cur-dogs  hanging  like  earrings  from  their  ears.  Neither 
was  the  hare  immune  from  difficulties.  His  course 
had  been  plotted  to  pass  that  old  graveyard  at 
Castle  Haven  whereof  mention  has  been  made,  and 
when  he  arrived  at  it  he  found  a  funeral  in  progress. 
He  lifted  the  drag,  and  tried  to  conceal  his  true  cha- 
racter. In  vain.  When  he  had  passed,  and  he  ventured 
to  become  once  more  a  hare,  he  found  that  there  was 
not  a  man  of  the  funeral  who  was  not  hanging  over 
the  graveyard  wall,  absorbed  in  the  progress  of  the 
chase.  This  had  been  arranged  to  conclude  at  the 
kennels,  and  Candy  and  I,  having  been  skirters 
throughout,  waited  at  a  suitable  point  to  see  the 
finish.  First  came  the  hare,  very  purple  in  the  face, 
but  still  uncaught  and  undefeated,  the  paraffined 
remains  of  the  rabbit  still  bouncing  zealously  after 
him.  Then  I  heard  the  single,  recurring  note  of  a 
hound,  and  presently  Rachel  came  into  view  at  a 
leisurely  trot ;  as  she  passed  me,  she  smiled  apolo- 
getically— she  had  a  pretty  smile  that  showed  her 
front  teeth — and  waved  her  stern.  I  understood  her 
to  say  that  it  was  all  rot,  but  she  was  going  through 
with  it.  After  Rachel,  nothing.  I  was  high  on  the 
hill-side  above  the  kennels,  and  I  heard  a  vague  row 
on  the  road  below,  from  which  I  gathered  that  the 


OF  DOGS  225 

game  had  palled  on  the  rest  of  the  pursuers,  and  they 
were  going  home  for  tea. 

I  have  loved  many  dogs.  All  of  them  have  had 
"  bits  of  my  heart  to  tear,"  and  have  torn  it,  but  of 
them  all,  Candy  comes  first,  and  will  remain  so. 
"  Wee  Candy  is  just  fear£u\\y  neat !  "  as  her  faithful 
friend,  Madge  Robertson,  used  to  say,  with  the 
whole-hearted  enthusiasm  of  a  Highlander.  Candy 
was  a  very  small  smooth  fox  terrier,  eldest  daughter 
of  Muck,  with  a  forehead  as  high  and  as  full  as  that 
of  the  Chinese  God  of  Wisdom,  and  eyes  that  had  a 
more  profound  and  burning  soul  in  them  than  I  have 
seen  in  the  eyes  of  any  other  living  thing.  I  pass 
over  her  nose  in  silence.  Her  figure  was  perfection, 
and  her  complexion,  snow,  with  one  autumn  leaf 
veiling  her  right  eye. 

She  danced  at  tea-parties,  whirling  in  a  gauze  frock, 
and  an  Early  Victorian  straw  bonnet  trimmed  with 
rosebuds.  In  this  attire  she  would  walk,  or  rather 
trip,  elegantly,  from  end  to  end  of  a  table,  appraising 
what  was  thereon,  and  deciding  by  which  cake  to  take 
up  her  position.  To  see  her  say  her  grace,  with  her 
little  bonneted  head  in  her  paws,  on  her  Mother's 
knee,  had  power  to  make  right-minded  persons  weep 
(even  as  one  of  my  sisters-in-law  has  been  seen  to 
shed  tears,  when,  from  the  top  of  an  omnibus,  she 
chanced  to  behold  her  eldest  son,  walking  in  boredom, 
yet  in  unflawed  goodness,  with  his  nurse). 

She  was  the  little  dog  who  set  the  fashion  to  all  her 
fellows,  and  her  rules  were  of  iron.  Chief  among  these, 
was,  as  St.  Paul  might  have  said,  to  abstain  from 
affectionate  licking.  This,  she  held,  was  underbred, 
and  never  done  by  the  best  dogs.  She  had  a  wounding 
way  of  carefully  sniffing  the  face  or  the  fingers,  and 
then  turning  aside ;  but  on  some  few  and  high 
occasions  the  ordinance  has  been  infringed.      Above 

Q 


226  IRISH  MEMORIES 

and  beyond  all  others  of  her  race  she  had  the  power 
of  expressing  herself.  It  was  she  who  organised  and 
headed  the  Reception  Committees  that  welcomed  my 
return  after  absence,  and  I  have  often  been  told  how, 
when  my  return  was  announced  to  her,  she  would 
assemble  herself  and  her  comrades  in  a  position  that 
commanded  the  point  of  arrival,  and  would  lead  the 
first  public  salutations  and  reproaches  for  past  neglect ; 
and,  these  suitably  and  histrionically  accomplished, 
no  other  little  dog  could  disclose  so  deep  yet  decorous 
an  ecstasy,  her  face  hidden  in  my  neck,  while  she 
uttered  faint  and  tiny  groans  of  love.  Portraits,  and, 
still  less,  photographs,  convey  little  or  nothing  to 
most  dogs,  but  I  have  seen  Candy  stiffen  up  and  gaze 
fixedly  at  a  snapshot  of  a  bull-terrier  (very  white  on 
a  dark  background)  that  chanced  to  be  on  a  level  with 
her  eyes,  uttering  the  while  small  and  bead-like  growls. 

Her  unusual  brain  power  was  paid  for  by  overstrung 
nerves,  and  any  loud  and  sudden  sound  had  power  to 
terrify  her.  She  nearly  died  from  what  would  now 
be  called  shock,  after  a  few  hours  spent  in  the  inferno 
of  Glasgow  streets,  in  the  course  of  a  journey  which 
she  and  I  made  to  the  Highlands.  We  were  going 
to  the  Island  of  Mull,  and  there  we  enjoyed  ourselves 
as,  I  think,  only  the  guests  of  Highland  hosts  and 
hostesses  can.  Candy,  as  was  invariably  the  case, 
immediately  took  precedence  of  all  other  beings. 

"  Jeanie,"  said  the  Laird  to  his  sister,  "  you've 
let  the  fire  out." 

Jeanie,  in  whose  lap  Candy  was  embedded,  replied, 
"  I  couldn't  help  it,  Duncan.  Candy  dislikes  so 
intensely  the  noise  of  putting  on  coal." 

The  Laird  admitted  the  explanation. 

Much  remains  to  be  desired  in  travelling  facilities 
on  steamers,  but  in  nothing  more  than  in  provision 


E.    CE.    S.   AND   A   DILETTANTE. 


OF  DOGS  227 

for  dogs  and  children  ;  a  creche  in  which  to  immure 
children  and  those  doomed  to  attend  them,  a  suitably 
arranged  receptacle  in  each  cabin  for  the  passenger's 
dog.  On  a  certain  cross-Channel  route,  between 
Ireland  and  England,  I  had,  before  the  War,  estab- 
lished myself  and  my  dogs  on  a  sound  basis.  The 
dear  Stewardess,  with  whom  this  was  arranged,  is 
now  dead,  so  without  injury  to  her  I  can  reveal  the 
relations  between  us.  You  must  picture  me  as  lurking, 
with  two  small  white  dogs  in  a  leash,  in  some  obscure 
spot  beneath  the  bridge.  I  have  secured  a  cabin,  and 
during  the  confusion  prior  to  getting  under  way  I 
rush  into  it  with  the  dogs.  I  then  establish  them  in  a 
rug  under  a  seat.  The  Stewardess  enters — we  converse 
affably.  (One  of  these  many  journeys  took  place  on 
the  same  day  that  Queen  Victoria  crossed  the  Irish 
Sea  to  pay  her  last  visit  to  Ireland.  I  mentioned  the 
fact  to  the  Stewardess.  "  Why,  then,  I  hope  she'll 
have  a  good  crossing,  the  poor  gerr'l  I  "  replied  the 
Stewardess,  benignantly.) 

To  return  to  the  dogs.  They,  being  well  trained, 
have  instantly  composed  themselves  for  sleep.  The 
Stewardess,  equally  well  trained,  ignores  them,  only, 
when  leaving  the  cabin,  saying  firmly,  "  Now,  I  don't 
see  them  dogs.     I  never  seen  them  at  all." 

Then  she  leaves.  Later,  the  vessel  having  started, 
and  I  having  retired  to  my  berth,  the  door  is  softly 
opened.  In  the  darkness  I  hear  the  Stewardess's 
voice  hiss,  in  the  thinnest  of  whispers,  "  Have  ye  their 
tickets  ?  "  I  reply  in  equally  gnat-like  tones,  "  I 
have  !  "  "  I'll  take  them,  so,"  she  replies.  And  all  is 
well. 

It  was  this  same  Stewardess,  in  the  course  of  my 
first  crossing  with  her,  of  whom  I  wrote  to  Martin  as 
follows.     The  subject  is  not  strictly  within  the  scope 

Q  2 


228  IRISB  MEMORIES 

of  this  chapter,  but,  as  may  have  been  observed,  I 
have  absolved  myself  from  limitations  such  as  this. 

E.  (E.  S.  to  V.  F.  M.     (May,  1890.) 

"  The  Stewardess,  in  the  course  of  much  friendly 
converse,  said,  '  Well,  and  I  suppose  ye're  coming 
back  from  school,  now  ?  ' 

"  I  concealed  my  deep  gratification  at  the  supposi- 
tion, and  said  '  No — ^that  I  was  done  with  school  for 
some  time.'  *  Well  then,  I  suppose  you  are  too ' — 
(clearly  thinking  I  was  offended  at  the  inference) — 
'  I  suppose  you're  too  big  now  to  be  going  to  school !  ' 

"  Then  I  said  I  had  never  gone  to  school ;  whereat 
she  put  her  helm  hard  down,  and  began  to  abuse 
school-girls  with  much  heartiness,  and  said  they  gave 
more  trouble  than  any  other  passengers. 

"  '  Indeed,  they're  great  imps,'  she  said. 

"  I,  clearly,  am  that  woman  whom  you  have  so  often 
and  so  consistently  abused,  to  whom  Stewardesses  talk 
—(all  night,  by  the  light  of  a  sickeningly  swinging 
colza-oil  lamp)." 

A  friend  of  mine  once  said  to  this  admirable  woman 
that  she  proposed  to  bring  her  dog  to  England,  and 
quoted  the  precedent  of  my  dogs  as  to  cabin 
privileges. 

"  Is  it  Miss  Somerville  ?  "  said  the  Stewardess,  in 
a  voice  weary  with  the  satiety  of  a  foregone  conclusion. 
"  Sure,  she  has  nests  of  them  !  " 


CHAPTER    XX 


"  The  Real  Charlotte  "  can  claim  resemblance  with 
Homer  in  one  peculiarity  at  least,  that  of  a  plurality 
of  birthplaces.  She  was  first  born  at  Ross,  in 
November,  1889,^ and  achieved  as  much  life  as  there 
may  be  in  a  skeleton  scenario.  She  then  expired, 
untimely.  Her  next  avatar  was  at  Drishane,  when, 
in  April,  1890,  we  wrote  with  enthusiasm  the  first 
chapter,  and  having  done  so,  straightway  put  her  on 
a  shelf,  and  she  died  again.  In  the  following  November 
we  did  five  more  chapters,  and  established  in  our  own 
minds  the  identity  of  the  characters.  Thenceforward 
those  unattractive  beings,  Charlotte  Mullen,  Roddy 
Lambert,  The  Turkey-Hen,  entered  like  the  plague 
of  frogs  into  our  kneading-troughs,  our  wash-tubs, 
our  bedchambers.  With  them  came  Hawkins, 
Christopher,  and  others,  but  with  a  less  persistence. 
But  of  them  all,  and,  I  think,  of  all  the  company 
of  more  or  less  tangible  shadows  who  have  been  fated 
to  declare  themselves  by  our  pens,  it  is  Francie 
Fitzpatrick  who  was  our  most  constant  companion, 
and  she  was  the  one  of  them  all  who  "  had  the  sway." 
We  knew  her  best ;  we  were  fondest  of  her.  Martin 
began  by  knowing  her  better  than  I  did,  but,  even 
during  the  period  when  she  sat  on  the  shelf  with  her 
fellows,  while  Martin  and  I  boiled  the  pot  with  short 


230  IRISH  MEMORIES 

stories  and  the  like  (that  are  now  rSchauJfS  in  "  All 
on  the  Irish  Shore  "),  or  wrote  up  tours,  or  frankly 
idled,  Francie  was  taking  a  hand  in  what  we  did, 
and  her  point  of  view  was  in  our  minds. 

Very  often  have  we  been  accused  of  wresting  to 
our  vile  purposes  the  friends  and  acquaintances 
among  whom  we  have  lived  and  moved  and  had  our 
being.  If  I  am  to  be  believed  in  anything,  I  may  be 
believed  in  this  that  I  now  say.  Of  all  the  people  of 
whom  we  have  written,  three  only  have  had  any 
direct  prototype  in  life.  One  was  "  Slipper,"  another 
was  "  Maria,"  both  of  whom  are  in  "  Some  Experiences 
of  an  Irish  R.M.,"  and  the  other  was  the  Real  Char- 
lotte. Slipper's  identity  is  negligible.  So  is  Maria's. 
She  who  inspired  Charlotte  had  left  this  world  before 
we  began  to  write  books,  and  had  left,  unhappy  woman, 
so  few  friends,  if  any,  that  in  trying  to  embody  some 
of  her  aspects  in  Charlotte  Mullen,  Martin  and  I  felt 
we  were  breaking  no  law  of  courtesy  or  of  honour. 

One  very  strange  fact  in  connection  with  Charlotte 
I  may  here  record.  Some  time  after  the  book  had 
been  published,  an  old  lady  who  had  known  her  in 
the  flesh  met  us,  and  said — (please  try  to  realise  the 
godliest  and  most  esoteric  of  County  Cork  accents) — 

"  And  tell  me,  how  in  the  worr'ld  did  you  know 
about  Charlotte's  "  (I  may  call  her  Charlotte)  "  love- 
affair  ?  " 

We  said  we  had  never  known  of  such.  That  it  had 
developed  itself  out  of  the  story  ;  in  fact,  that  we 
had  no  idea  that  anything  of  the  kind  was  possible. 

"  Well,  'tis  pairfectly  true  !  "  replied  the  old  lady, 
intensely. 

And  so  indeed  it  was,  as  was  then  expounded  to  us. 
In  almost  every  detail  of  Charlotte's  relations  with 
Lambert  and  his  wife  ;  incredibly,  even  appallingly 
true.     And  we  then  remembered  how,  while  we  were 


''THE  REAL   CHARLOTTE''  281 

still  writing  the  book,  a  communication  had  come  to 
my  sister,  purporting  to  be  from  the  Real  Charlotte, 
in  some  sphere  other  than  this.  A  message  of  such 
hatred  as  inevitably  suggested  the  words,  "  Hell 
holds  no  fury  like  a  woman  scorned." 

These  are  things  beyond  and  above  our  comprehen- 
sion ;  it  is  trying  the  poor  old  scapegoat  of  Coinci- 
dence very  high  if  it  is  to  be  pressed  into  the  service 
of  a  case  as  complicated,  and  elaborate,  and  identical 
in  detail  as  was  this  one. 

"  The  Real  Charlotte  "  went  with  us  through  the  years 
'90  and  '91,  and  was  finished  during  the  early  summer 
of  '92.     There  is  an  entry  in  my  diary.     "  June  8,  >^ 
1892.     Wrote  feverishly.     The  most  agitating  scenes 
of  Charlotte.     Finished  Francie." 

We  felt  her  death  very  much.  We  had  sat  out  on 
the  cliffs,  in  heavenly  May  weather,  with  Poul 
Ghurrum,  the  Blue  Hole,  at  our  feet,  and  the  great 
wall  of  Brisbane  Side  rising  sheer  behind  us,  blazing 
with  yellow  furze  blossom,  just  flecked  here  and 
there  with  the  reticent  silver  of  blackthorn.  The 
time  of  the  "  Scoriveen,"  the  Blackthorn  winter,  that 
last  flick  of  the  lash  of  the  east  wind,  that  comes  so 
often  early  in  May,  was  past.  We  and  the  dogs  had 
achieved  as  much  freedom  from  social  and  household 
offices  as  gave  us  the  mornings,  pure  and  wide,  and 
unmolested.  There  is  a  place  in  the  orchard  at 
Brisbane  that  is  bound  up  with  those  final  chapters, 
when  we  began  to  know  that  there  could  be  but  one 
fate  for  Francie.  It  felt  like  killing  a  wild  bird  that 
had  trusted  itself  to  you. 

We  have  often  been  reviled  for  that,  as  for  many 
other  incidents  in  "  The  Real  Charlotte,"  but  I  still 
think  we  were  right. 

Although  the  book  was  practically  finished  in  June, 
the  delays  and  interruptions  that  had  followed  it  from 


232  IRISH  MEMORIES 

the  first  pursued  it  still.  It  was  still  in  the  roughest 
and  most  bewildering  of  manuscript,  and  its  recopying 
involved  us,  as  has  been  invariably  our  fate,  in  many 
alterations  and  additions.  Interspersed  with  this 
work  were  short  stories,  visits,  hunting,  occasional 
articles  called  for  by  some  casual  paper  or  magazine. 
It  was  not  until  February  4,  1893,  that  we  "  actually 
and  entirely  finished  off  the  Welsh  Aunt,  alias  '  The 
Real  Charlotte,'  and  sent  her  off.     Poor  old  thing." 

But  even  then  there  was  no  rest  for  the  sole  of  her 
foot.  Bentley  offered  £100,  neither  more  nor  less. 
Our  diaries  remark,  "  wrote  breathing  forth  fire  and 
and  fury,  and  refused."  In  March  I  find  that  the  day 
after  I  had  "  ridden  a  hunt  on  a  drunk  pony," 
"  Bentley  returned  the  MS."  I  think  the  excite- 
ment of  the  hunt  on  that  unusual  mount  took  the 
sting  out  of  Charlotte's  reverse.  In  April,  "  Smith 
and  Elder  curtly  refused  the  Real  C.  They  said  their 
reader,  Mr.  James  Payn,  was  ill.  Can  his  illness 
have  been  the  result  of  reading  Charlotte  ?  Or  was 
it  anticipatory  ?  "  Martin  was  at  this  time  in  Dublin, 
a  sojourn  thus  summarised  in  her  diary :  "  Dublin 
filled  with  dull,  dirty,  middle-aged  women.  Had 
my  hair  done  in  enormous  bundle  at  back.  Hideous 
but  compulsory."  I  joined  her  there  and  we  pro- 
ceeded to  London  and  saw  and  heard  many  cheerful 
things.  (Amongst  other  items  in  my  diary,  I  find 
"  Heard  Mr.  Haweis  preach  a  good  sermon  on  Judas 
Iscariot,  with  faint  but  pleasant  suggestion  of  a 
parallel  between  him  and  Mr.  Gladstone.")  We  then 
opened  negotiations  with  Messrs.  Ward  and  Downey, 
and  pending  their  completion,  Martin  and  I,  with 
my  mother  and  my  sister,  paid  our  first  visit  to  Oxford. 

The  affair  opened  badly.  Our  luggage  had  been 
early  entrusted  to  a  porter,  to  be  deposited  in  the 
^loak-room,  and  the  porter  was  trysted  to  meet  us  at 


"THE  REAL   CHARLOTTE  "  233 

a  certain  hour  and  place.  At  the  time  appointed  the 
porter  was  not.  Our  luggage  eyed  us  coldly  across 
the  barrier,  and,  the  recognition  being  one-sided,  and 
unsupported  by  tickets,  remained  there,  while  we 
searched  for  the  porter  and  the  tickets  (for  which  he 
had  paid).  He  never  transpired,  and  his  fate  remains 
a  Mystery  of  the  Great  Western.  By  what  is  known 
in  an  Irish  Petty  Sessions  Court  as  "  hard  swearing," 
we  obtained  possession  of  our  property,  but  not  before 
my  mother  had  {vide  my  diary)  "  gone  foaming  to 
Oxford  "  without  either  her  ducats  or  her  daughters, 
coerced  by  the  necessity  of  propitiating  our  host,  a 
Don  of  Magdalen,  with  whom  it  seemed  unwise  to  trifle. 
Those  days  at  Oxford  are  written  in  our  memories 
in  red  letters,  even  though  a  party  more  bent  on 
triviality  and  foolishness  has  not  often  disgraced  the 
hospitality  of  a  Scholar.  He  does  not,  I  fear,  forget 
how,  after  patient  and  learned  exposition  and  exhibi- 
tion of  many  colleges,  one  asked  him,  in  genuine,  even 
painstaking,  ignorance,  to  remind  her  which  of  them 
had  been  "  Waddle  College  "  ;  and  how  he  was  only 
able  to  recall  it  to  the  inquirer's  memory  by  the 
mention  of  a  certain  little  white  dog  that  was  sitting 
at  the  entrance  gate.  Nor  how,  when  taken  to  the 
roof  of  the  Bodleian,  to  be  shown  the  surrounding 
glories  of  Oxford,  the  sight  of  one  of  the  ventilators 
of  its  reading-room  had  evoked  in  Martin  Ross  an 
uncontrollable  longing  to  shriek  down  it,  in  imitation 
of  a  dog  whose  tail  has  been  jammed  in  a  door.  (An 
incomparable  gift  of  hers,  that  has  made  the  fortune 
of  many  a  dull  dinner-party.)  I  have  often  wondered 
what  the  grave  students  in  that  home  of  learning 
thought  of  the  unearthly  cry  from  the  heavens, 
Sirius,  as  it  were,  in  mortal  agony.  We  were  not 
permitted  to  wait  for  a  sequel.  Our  host,  with 
blanched  face,  hurried  us  away. 


234       *  IRISH  MEMORIES 

"  These  be  toys,"  but  they  were  pleasant,  and  one 
more  recollection  of  that  time  may  be  permitted.  It 
was  April  30th,  and  on  May  morning,  as  all  properly 
instructed  persons  know,  the  choristers  of  Magdalen 
salute  the  rising  sun  from  the  top  of  Magdalen  Tower. 
Our  host,  the  Don,  being  a  man  having  authority,  deter- 
mined that  we  were  to  view  this  ceremony  ;  and  being 
also  a  man  of  intelligence,  decided  that  one  of  his 
menials  should  for  the  occasion  take  his  office  of  guide 
and  protector.  Accordingly,  at  some  four  of  the  clock, 
a  faithful  undergraduate  threw  small  stones  at  our 
windows  in  the  Mitre  Hotel,  and,  presently,  with  an 
ever  increasing  crowd,  we  ran  at  his  heels  to  Magdalen 
Tower.  We  gained  the  spiral  stone  staircase  with  a 
good  few  on  it  in  advance  of  us,  and  a  mighty  multitude 
following  behind.  Then  it  was,  when  about  halfway 
up,  and  anything  save  advance  was  impossible,  that 
the  youngest  and  the  tallest  of  us  announced  that 
giddiness  had  come  upon  her,  and  that  she  was  unable 
to  move.  The  faithful  undergraduate  rose  to  the 
occasion,  and  immediately  directed  her  to  put  her 
arms  round  his  waist.  This  she  did,  and,  unsolicited, 
buried  her  face  in  his  Norfolk  jacket's  waist-band. 
Thus  they  arrived  safely  at  the  antechamber  to  the 
roof.  There  we  left  her,  and  climbed  the  ladder  that 
leads  to  the  roof.  The  sun  rose,  the  white-robed  choir 
warbled  their  Latin  hymn,  the  Tower  rocked,  we  saw 
its  battlements  sway  between  us  and  its  neighbour 
spires,  and  while  these  things  were  occurring,  a  very 
long  thing,  like  an  alligator,  crawled  across  the  leads 
towards  us — ^the  youngest  of  the  party,  unable  to  be 
out  of  it,  but  equally  unable  to  stand  up.  The  faithful 
undergraduate  renewed  his  attentions. 

All  this  is  long  ago ;  the  two  gayest  spirits,  who 
made  the  fortunes  of  that  visit,  have  left  us. 
Magdalen,  and  its  cloisters,  and  its  music,  have  moved 


''THE  REAL   CHARLOTTE"  285 

into  the  bright  places  of  memory.     When  I  think  now 
of  those  May  days 

"  Tliere  comes  no  answer  but  a  sigh, 
A  wavering  thought  of  the  grey  roofs, 
The  fluttering  gown,  the  gleaming  oars. 
And  the  sound  of  many  bells."  i 

and  I  "  can  make  reply,"  falteringly, 

"  '  I  too  have  seen  Oxford.'  " 


About  a  fortnight  after  this  we  sold  "  The  Real 
Charlotte  "  to  Messrs.  Ward  and  Downey  for  £250  and 
half  American  rights  (which,  as  far  as  I  can  remember, 
never  materialised).  After  this  we  devoted  ourselves 
to  the  trousseau  of  the  youngest  of  the  party — which 
was  a  matter  that  had  not  been  divulged  to  the  faithful 
undergraduate,  and  is  only  mentioned  now  in  order 
to  justify  the  chronicling  of  two  of  the  comments  of 
Castle  Haven  on  the  accompanying  display  of  wedding 
presents.  One  critic  said  that  to  see  them  was  like 
being  in  Paradise.  Another  declared  that  it  was  for 
all  the  world  like  a  circus. 

Are  things  that  are  equal  to  the  same  thing  equal 
to  each  other  ?  It  is  a  question  for  the  Don  of 
Magdalen  to  decide. 


Not  for  another  year  did  "  The  Real  Charlotte  "  see 
the  light.  Various  business  disasters  pursued  and 
detained  her ;  it  was  in  May,  1894,  that  she  at  length 
appeared,  and  was  received  by  no  means  with  the 
trumpets  and  shawms  suggested  by  Sir  William 
Gregory. 

1  "Et  in  Arcadia  Ego"  E.  L.  in  the  Spectator.    August  25,  1917. 


236  IRISH  MEMORIES 

One  distinguished  London  literary  paper  pro- 
nounced it  to  be  "  one  of  the  most  disagreeable  novels 
we  have  ever  read  "  ;  and  ended  with  the  crushing 
assertion  that  it  could  "  hardly  imagine  a  book  more 
calculated  to  depress  and  disgust  even  a  hardened 
reader  .  .  .  the  amours  are  mean,  the  people  mostly 
repulsive,  and  the  surroundings  depressing."  Another 
advised  us  to  "  call  in  a  third  coadjutor,  in  the  shape 
of  a  judicious  but  determined  expurgator  of  rubbish  "  ; 
The  Weekly  Sun,  which  did  indeed,  as  Martin  said, 
give  us  the  best,  and  best  written,  notice  that  we  had 
had,  ended  a  review  of  eight  columns  by  condemning 
the  book  as  "  unsympathetic,  hard,  and  harsh,"  though 
"worthy  of  study,  of  serious  thought,  of  sombre  but 
perhaps  instructive  reflection."  A  few  reviewers  of 
importance  certainly  showed  us — as  St.  Paul  says — no 
little  kindness,  (not  that  I  wish  it  to  be  inferred  that 
reviewers  are  a  barbarous  people,  which  would  be  the 
height  of  ingratitude,)  but,  on  the  whole,  poor  Char- 
lotte fared  badly,  and  one  Dublin  paper,  while  "  com- 
mending the  book  "  to  its  readers,  even  saying  that 
Francie  was  "  an  attractive  heroine,"  went  on  to 
deplore  the  "  undeniable  air  of  vulgarity  which  clings 
to  her,"  and  finally  exclaimed,  with  grieved  incredulity, 
"  Surely  no  girl  of  Francie's  social  position  screams, 
'  G'long,  ye  dirty  fella  '  !  " 

A  very  regrettable  incident,  but,  I  fear  (to  quote  kind 
Mr.  Brown),  though  legendary,  it  is  not  nonsensical. 

So  was  it  also  with  our  own  friends.  My  mother  first 
wrote,  briefly,  "  All  here  loathe  Charlotte."  With 
the  arrival  of  the  more  favourable  reviews  her 
personal  "  loathing  "  became  modified  ;  later,  at  my 
behest,  she  gave  me  the  following  able  synopsis  of 
unskilled  opinion. 

"  As  you  told  me  to  give  you  faithfully  all  I  heard, 
pro  and  con,  about  Charlotte,  I  will  do  so. 

"  Mrs.  A.     '  Very  clever,  very  clever,  but  I  have  no 


''THE  REAL   CHARLOTTE''  287 

praise  for  it,  Mrs.  Somerville,  no  praise  !  The  subjects 
are  too  nasty  !  I  have  no  interest  in  such  vulgar 
people,  and  I'm  sure  the  Authors  have  really  none 
either,  but  it  is  very  clever  of  them  to  be  able  to  write 
at  all,  and  to  get  money  for  it !  ' 

"  Mrs.  B.  was  extremely  interested  in  the  book  and 
thought  it  most  powerful,  but  said  that  nothing  would 
induce  her  even  to  tell  her  sisters  that  such  a  book 
was  to  be  had,  as  the  imprecations  would  shock  them 
to  that  extent  that  they  would  never  get  over  it. 

"  Then  Miss  C.  didn't  like  it,  first  because  of  the 
oaths,  and  secondly  because  it  would  give  English 
people  the  idea  that  in  all  ranks  of  Irish  life  the  people 
were  vulgar,  rowdy,  and  gave  horrible  parties. 

"  The  D.'s  didn't  like  it  either,  for  the  same  reasons, 
but  thought  if  you  had  given  '  Christopher  '  a  stronger 
back-bone,  and  hadn't  allowed  him  to  say  '  Lawks  ! ', 
that  he  would  have  been  a  redeeming  character,  and 
also  '  Pamela,'  had  she  only  been  brought  forward 
more  prominently,  and  that  you  had  allowed  her  to 
marry  '  Cursiter.'  " 

From  these,  and  many  similar  pronouncements,  it 
was  but  too  apparent  to  us  that  the  Doctors  were 
entirely  agreed  in  their  decision,  and  that  my  mother 
had  herself  summarised  the  general  opinion,  when  she 
wrote  to  one  of  her  sisters  that  "  Francie  deserved  to 
break  her  neck  for  her  vulgarity  ;  she  certainly  wasn't 
nice  enough  in  any  way  to  evoke  sympathy,  and  the 
girls  had  to  kill  her  to  get  the  whole  set  of  them  out 
of  the  awful  muddle  they  had  got  into  !  " 

The  authors,  on  receipt  of  these  criticisms,  laughed 
rather  wanly.  "  Sophie  pleurait,  mais  la  poupee  restait 
cassee^  Although  we  could  laugh,  a  certain  depression 
was  inescapable. 

I  do  not  say  that  we  had  only  adverse  opinions  from 
our  friends.  Our  own  generation  sustained  us  with 
warm  and  enthusiastic  approval,  and  we  were  fortified 


238  IRISH  MEMORIES 

by  this,  despite  the  fact  that  a  stern  young  brother 
wrote  to  me  in  high  reprobation,  and  ended  by  saying 
that  "  such  a  combination  of  bodily  and  mental 
hideosity  as  Charlotte  could  never  have  existed 
outside  of  your  and  Martin's  diseased  imaginations." 
Which  left  little  more  to  be  said. 

On  the  whole,  the  point  insisted  on,  to  the  exclusion 
of  every  other  aspect  of  the  book,  was  the  "  un- 
pleasantness "  of  the  characters.  The  pendulum  has 
now  swung  the  other  way,  and  *'  pleasant "  characters 
usually  involve  a  charge  of  want  of  seriousness.  Very 
humbly,  and  quite  uncontroversially,  I  may  say  that 
Martin  and  I  have  not  wavered  from  the  opinion 
that  "The  Real  Charlotte"  was,  and  remains,  the  best 
of  our  books,  and,  with  this  very  mild  commendation, 
the  matter,  as  far  as  we  are  concerned,  closes. 

We  were  in  Paris  (with  the  tallest  and  youngest 
of  the  Magdalen  Tower  party)  when  Charlotte  was 
published.  I  was  working  for  a  brief  spell  at  the 
studio  of  M.  Delecluse  ;  Martin  was  writing  a  series 
of  short  articles,  which,  with  the  title  "  Quartier 
Latinities,"  and  adorned  by  drawings  of  mine,  ap- 
peared in  Black  and  White.  The  casual,  artless,  yet 
art-full  life  of  "  The  Quarter "  fascinated  Martin ; 
she  had  the  gift  of  living  it  with  zest,  while  remaining 
far  enough  outside  it  to  be  able  to  savour  its  many 
absurdities.  As  we  said,  in  one  of  our  books,  and 
the  idea  was  hers,  "  The  Irishman  is  always  the  critic 
in  the  stalls,  and  is  also,  in  spirit,  behind  the  scenes." 
The  "  English  Club  "  for  women  artists,  of  which  I 
was  a  member,  soon  got  to  know,  and  to  accept,  the 
slim  and  immaculately  neat  critic  of  the  simple  habits 
and  customs  of  its  members,  and  resented  not  at  all  her 
analysis  of  its  psychology.  Black  and  White  had  an 
immense  vogue  there ;  some  day,  perhaps,  those 
articles,  and  others  of  Martin  Ross's  stray  writings, 
may  be  collected  and  reprinted.   If  the  "  Boul'  Miche'," 


"  THE  REAL   CHARLOTTE  "  289 

now  orphaned  of  its  artists,  ever  gathers  a  new  genera- 
tion under  its  wings,  these  divagations  of  autre-fois 
will  have  an  interest  of  their  own  for  those  that 
survive  of  the  old  order. 

We  had  rooms  at  a  very  unfashionable  hotel  on  the 
Boulevard  Mont  Parnasse,  at  the  corner  of  the  Boule- 
vard Raspail.  It  was  mainly  occupied  by  art  students, 
and  the  flare  of  esprit  a  bruler  lit  its  many  windows 
at  the  sacred  hour  of  le  fife  o'clock,  or  such  of  its 
windows  as  appertained  to  les  Anglaises,  The  third 
member  of  our  menage  went  daily  to  what  she  spoke 
of  as  "  The  Louvre  *' — meaning  the  Magasin,  not  the 
Musee — and  explained  rather  vaguely  that  she  had 
"  to  buy  things  for  a  bazaar.'*  Her  other  occupation 
was  that  of  cook.  There  was  a  day  when  "  Ponce  " 
(my  fellow  lodger,  it  may  be  remembered,  in  the  Rue 
Madame)  came  beneath  our  windows  at  lunch  time 
and  was  offered  hospitality.  She  declined,  and  was 
then  desired  to  "  run  over  to  Carraton's  "  and  purchase 
for  the  cook  a  dozen  of  eggs.  This  she  did,  and  cried 
to  us  from  the  street  below — (we  were  swells,  living 
au  'premier) — that  the  eggs  were  there.  The  cook  is 
a  person  of  resource,  and  in  order  to  save  trouble, 
she  bade  Ponce  wait,  while  she  lowered  to  her  a  basket, 
by  the  apostolic  method  of  small  cords,  in  which  she 
should  place  the  eggs.  Across  the  way  was  a  cafS, 
dedicated  to  a  mysterious  and  ever-thirsty  company, 
^^Les  hons  Gymnasiarques.^'  The  attention  of  these 
beings,  and  that  of  a  neighbouring  cab-stand,  was 
speedily  attracted  to  the  proceeding.  Spellbound 
they  watched  the  cook  as  she  lowered  the  basket  to 
Ponce.  Holding  their  breaths,  they  watched  Ponce 
entrust  the  eggs  to  the  basket ;  as  it  rose,  they  rose 
from  their  seats  beneath  the  awning ;  as  the  small  cords 
broke — which  of  course  they  did,  when  the  basket  was 
about  halfway  to  the  window — and  the  eggs  enveloped 
Ponce  in  involuntary  omelette,  the  Bons  Gymnasiarques 


240  IRISH  MEMORIES 

cheered.  I  have  little  doubt  but  that  that  omelette 
helped  to  cement  the  Entente  Cordiale,  which  was  at 
that  time  still  considerably  below  the  national  horizon. 

I  am  aware  that  tales  of  French  as  she  is  spoke  by 
the  English  have  been  many,  "  but  each  must  mourn 
his  own  (she  saith),"  and  we  had  a  painful  episode  or 
two  that  must  be  recounted.  The  gentlemen  of  the 
Magasin  du  Louvre  could,  if  they  would,  contribute 
some  stirring  stories.  One  wonders  if  one  of  them 
is  still  dining  out  on  the  tall  young  English  lady  who 
told  him  at  the  Rayon  devoted  to  slippers  that  she 
desired  for  herself  a  pair  of  pantalons  rouges  ?  And 
if  another,  who  presided  at  a  lace  counter,  has  forgotten 
the  singular  request  made  to  him  for  a  "  Front  avec 
des  rides  "  ?  "A  wrinkled  forehead  !  "  one  seems 
to  hear  him  murmur  to  himself,  "  In  the  name  of  a 
pipe,  how,  at  her  age,  can  I  procure  this  for  her  ?  " 

These  are,  however,  child's  play  in  comparison  with 
what  befell  one  of  my  cousins,  when  shopping  in 
Geneva  with  an  aunt,  a  tall  and  impressive  aunt, 
godly,  serious,  middle-aged,  the  Church  of  Ireland, 
as  it  were,  embodied,  appropriately,  in  a  black 
Geneva  gown.  My  aunt  desired  a  pillow  to  supple- 
ment the  agremens  of  her  hotel ;  one  imagines  that 
the  equivalents  for  mattress  and  for  pillow  must 
have,  in  one  red  ruin,  blended  themselves  in  her 
mind.  "  Oreiller,''  "  sommier,''  something  akin  to 
these  formulated  itself  in  her  brain  and  sprang  to 
her  lips,  and  she  said, 

"  Donnez  moi  un  sommelier,  s'il  vous  plait." 

"  M'dame  ?  "  replied  the  shopman,  in  a  single, 
curt,  slightly  bewildered  syllable. 

"  Un  sommelier,"  repeated  the  embodiment  of  the 
Irish  Church,  distinctly,  "  Je  dors  tou jours  avec  deux 
sommeliers ' ' 

Here  my  cousin  intervened. 


CHAPTER   XXI 

SAINT    ANDREWS 

For  the  remainder  of  the  year  '94  the  exigencies 
of  family  hfe  kept  Martin  and  me  apart,  she  at  Ross, 
or  paying  visits,  I  at  home,  doing  the  illustrations  for 
our  Danish  tour,  with  complete  insincerity,  from 
local  models.  My  diary  says,  "  Impounded  Mother 
to  pose  as  the  Hofjagermesterinde,  and  Mary  Anne 
Whoolly  as  a  Copenhagen  market-woman — as  Tennyson 
prophetically  said,  '  All,  all  are  Danes.'  " 

In  the  meantime  "  The  Real  Charlotte  "  continued 
to  run  the  race  set  before  her,  with  a  growing  tide 
of  approval  from  those  whose  approval  we  most  valued, 
and  with  steadily  improving  sales.  In  November  I 
went  to  Leicestershire  (a  visit  that  shall  be  told  of 
hereafter),  and  thence  I  moved  on  to  Paris. 

In  January,  1895,  Martin  went  to  Scotland,  and 
paid  a  very  enjoyable  visit  to  some  friends  at  St. 
Andrews,  a  visit  that  was  ever  specially  memorable 
for  her  from  the  fact  that  it  was  at  St.  Andrews, 
among  the  kind  and  sympathetic  and  clever  people 
whom  she  met  there,  that  she  realised  for  the  first  time 
that  with  "  The  Real  Charlotte  "  we  had  made  a 
mark,  and  a  mark  that  was  far  deeper  and  more 
impressive  than  had  been  hitherto  suspected  by 
either  of  us.  The  enjoyment  of  this  discovery  was 
much  enhanced  by  the  fact  that  Mr.  Andrew  Lang, 


242  IRISH  MEMORIES 

whom  she  met  at  St.  Andrews,  was  one  of  the  firmest 
friends  of  the  much-abused  "  Miss  Mullen." 

I  have  some  letters  that  Martin  wrote  from  St. 
Andrews,  to  me,  in  Paris,  and  I  do  not  think  that  I 
need  apologise  for  transcribing  them  here,  even  though 
some  of  her  comments  and  descriptions  do  not  err 
on  the  side  of  over-formality.  Her  pleasure  in  the 
whole  experience  can,  I  think,  only  give  pleasure  in 
return  to  the  people  who  were  so  kind  to  her,  and 
whose  welcome  to  her,  as  a  writer,  was  so  generous, 
and  so  unexpected.  Brief  as  was  her  acquaintance 
with  Mr.  Lang,  his  delightful  personality  could  hardly 
have  been  better  comprehended  than  it  was  by  her, 
and  I  believe  that  his  friends  will  understand,  through 
all  the  chaff  of  her  descriptions,  that  he  had  no  more 
genuine  appreciator  than  Martin  Ross. 

V.  F.  M.  to  E.  GE.  S.     (St.  Andrews,  Jan.  16,  1895.) 

"  It  is  a  long  journey  here  from  Ross,  by  reason 
of  the  many  changes,  and  by  reason  of  my  back," 
(she  had  fallen  downstairs  at  Ross,  and  had  hurt  her 
back,  straining  and  bruising  it  very  badly,)  "  which 
gave  me  rather  a  poor  time.  I  hurt  it  horribly  getting 
in  and  out  of  carriages,  and  was  rather  depressed 
about  it  altogether  .  .  .  However  it  is  ever  so  much 
better  to-day,  and  none  the  worse  for  the  dinner 
last  night.  I  don't  think  I  looked  too  bad,  in  spite  of 
all.  I  was  ladylike  and  somewhat  hectic  and  hollow- 
eyed.  The  Langs  have  large  rooms,  and  their  dinner- 
party was  fourteen  ...  an  ugly  nice  youth  was  my 
portion,  and  I  was  put  at  Andrew  Lang's  left.  I  was 
not  shy,  but  anxious.  A.  L.  is  very  curious  to  look 
at ;  tall,  very  thin,  white  hair,  growing  far  down 
his  forehead,  and  shading  dark  eyebrows  and  piercing- 
looking,  charming  brown  eyes.  He  has  a  somewhat 
foxey  profile,  a  lemon-pale  face  and  a  black  moustache. 


SAINT  ANDREWS  248 

Altogether  very  quaint  looks,  and  appropriate.  I 
think  he  is  shy  ;  he  keeps  his  head  down  and  often 
does  not  look  at  you  when  speaking,  his  voice  is 
rather  high  and  indistinct,  and  he  pitches  his  sentences 
out  with  a  jerk.  Anyhow  I  paid  court  to  my  own 
young  man  for  soup  and  fish  time,  and  found  him 
most  agreeable  and  clever,  and  I  did  talk  of  hunting, 
and  he  was  mad  about  it,  so  now  !  no  more  of  your 
cautionary  hints ! 

"  To  me  then  Andrew  L.  with  a  sort  of  off-hand 
fling, 

"  '  I  suppose  you're  the  one  that  did  the  writing  ?  ' 
"  I  explained  with  some  care  that  it  was  not  so. 
He  said  he  didn't  know  how  any  two  people  could 
equally  evolve  characters,  etc.,  that  he  had  tried,  and 
it  was  always  he  or  the  other  who  did  it  all.  I  said 
I  didn't  know  how  we  managed,  but  anyhow  that  I 
knew  little  of  book-making  as  a  science.  He  said  I 
must  know  a  good  deal,  on  which  I  had  nothing  to 
say.  He  talked  of  Miss  Broughton,  Stevenson,  and 
others,  as  personal  friends,  and  exhibited  at  intervals 
a  curious  silent  laugh  up  under  his  nose.  .  .  .  He 
was  so  interesting  that  I  hardly  noticed  how  ripping 
was  the  dinner,  just  as  good  as  it  could  be.  I  then 
retired  upon  my  own  man  for  a  while,  and  Andrew 
upon  his  woman ;  then  my  youth  and  he  and  I  had 
a  long  talk  about  Oscar  Wilde  and  others.  Altogether 
I  have  seldom  been  more  entertained  and  at  ease. 
After  dinner  the  matrons  were  introduced  and  were 
very  civil,  and  praised  Charlotte  for  its  '  delightful 
humour,  and  freshness  and  newness  of  feeling,'  and 
so  on.  One  said  that  her  son  told  her  he  would  get 
anything  else  of  ours  that  he  could  lay  his  hands  on. 
Then  the  men  again.  I  shared  an  unknown  man  with 
a  matron,  and  then  the  good  and  kind  Andrew  drew 
a  chair  up  and  discoursed  me,  and  told  me  how  he  is 

R  2 


244  IRISH  MEMORIES 

writing  a  life  of  Joan  of  Arc—'  the  greatest  human 
being  since  Jesus  Christ.'  He  seems  wonderfully 
informed  on  all  subjects.  To  hear  him  reel  off  the 
historical  surroundings  of  the  Book  of  Esther  would 
surprise  you  and  would  scandalise  the  Canon.  He 
offered  to  give  me  a  lesson  in  golf,  but,  like  Cuthbert's 
soldier  servant  I  '  pleaded  the  'eadache.'  I  hear 
that  I  was  highly  honoured,  as  he  very  often  won't 
talk  to  people  and  is  rude  ;  I  must  say  I  thought  he 
was,  in  his  jerky,  unconventional  way,  polite  to 
everyone  .  .  .  This  is  a  cultured  house,  and  all 
the  new  books  are  here  .  .  .  I  wish  I  had  been 
walking  in  the  moonlight  by  the  Seine.  It  is  like  a 
dream  to  think  of  it.  Talking  to  Andrew  Lang  has 
made  me  feel  that  nothing  I  could  write  could  be  any 
good  ;  he  seems  to  have  seen  the  end  of  perfection. 
I  will  take  my  stand  on  Charlotte,  I  think,  and  learn 
to  make  my  own  clothes,  and  so  subside  noiselessly 
into  middle  age." 

V.  F.  M.  to  E.  CE.  S.     (St.  Andrews,  Jan.  23,  1895.) 

"  Do  you  know  that  even  now  the  sun  doesn't  rise 
here  till  8.30  at  the  best ;  at  the  worst  it  is  not  seen 
till  about  a  quarter  to  nine  !  This,  and  the  amazing 
cold  of  the  wind  make  one  know  that  this  is  pretty 
far  north  .  .  .  Since  I  last  wrote  various  have 
been  the  dissipations.  Afternoon  teas,  two  dinners, 
an  organ  recital,  a  concert.  It  is  very  amusing. 
They  are  all,  as  people,  more  interesting  than  the 
average,  being  Scotch,  and  they  have  a  high  opinion 
of  Charlotte.  I  am  beginning  to  be  accustomed  to 
having  people  introduced  to  me,  and  feeling  that 
they  expect  me  to  say  something  clever.  I  never  do. 
I  am  merely  very  conversational,  and  feel  in  the 
highest  spirits,  which  is  the  effect  of  the  air.  It  is 
passing  pleasant  to  hear  my  nice  hostess  tell  me  how 


SAINT  ANDREWS  245 

she  went  into  an  assembly  of  women  (and  this  being 
St.  Andrews,  mostly  clever  ones)  and  heard  them 
raving  of  Charlotte.  She  then  said,  *  I  know  one  of 
the  authors,  and  she  is  coming  to  stay  with  me  1  ' 
Sensation  !  By  the  bye,  several  people  have  told  me 
that  Charlotte  is  like  '  La  Cousine  Bette,'  which  is 
one  of  Balzac's  novels.  I  had  to  admit  that  we  have 
neither  of  us  read  Balzac.  At  one  dinner-party  the 
host,  who  is  an  excellent  photographer,  showed  some 
very  good  lantern-slides,  mostly  ruins,  old  churches 
and  the  like,  being  things  Mr.  Lang  is  interested  in. 
Finally  came  some  statuary  groups  ;  from  outside 
South  Kensington,  I  think  ;  horrible  blacks  on  the 
backs  of  camels,  etc.  On  the  first  glimpse  of  these 
Andrew,  who  had,  I  think,  been  getting  bored, 
shuddered,  and  fled  away  into  the  next  room,  refusing 
to  return  till  all  was  over. 

"  '  If  you  had  any  Greek  statuary '    he   said, 

feebly,  but  there  was  none. 

"  Then  I  was  turned  on  to  shriek  like  a  dog,  and 
he  was  bewildered  and  perturbed,  but  not  amused. 
He  asked  me,  in  an  unhappy  way,  how  I  did  it.  I 
said  by  main  strength,  the  way  the  Irishman  played 
the  fiddle.  This  was  counted  a  good  jest.  On  that 
the  Langs  left,  he  saying  in  a  vague,  dejected  way, 
apropos  of  nothing,  '  If  you'd  like  me  to  take  you 
round  the  town  sights  I'll  go— perhaps  if  Monday 
were  fine '  he  then  faded  out  of  the  house. 

"  On  Monday  no  sign  of  him,  nor  on  Tuesday  either. 
I  withered  in  neglect,  though  assured  that  he  never 
kept  appointments,  or  did  anything.  Yesterday  he 
sent  word  that  he  would  come  at  2.30,  and  he  really 
did.     The  weather  was  furiously  Arctic. 

"  '  Doctor  Nansen,  I  presume  ?  '  said  I,  coming  in 
dressed  and  ready.  He  looked  foolish,  and  admitted 
it  was  a  bad   day   for  exploration.       (Monday   had 


246  IRISH  MEMORIES 

been  lovely.)     However  we  went.     You  will  observe 
that  I  was  keeping  my  tail  very  erect. 

"  In  the  iron  blast  we  went  down  South  Street, 
where  most  things  are.  It  is  a  little  like  the  High 
at  Oxford,  on  a  small  trim  scale.  Andrew  was  imme- 
diately very  nice,  and  I  think  he  likes  showing  people 
round.  Have  I  mentioned  that  he  is  a  gentleman  ? 
Rather  particularly  so.  It  is  worth  mentioning.  He 
was  a  most  perished-looking  one,  this  piercing  day, 
with  his  white  face,  and  his  grey  hair  under  a  deer- 
stalker, but  still  he  looks  all  that.  I  won't  at  this 
time  tell  you  of  all  the  churches  and  places  he  took 
me  through.  It  was  pleasant  to  hear  him,  in  the 
middle  of  the  leading  Presbyterian  Church,  and 
before  the  pew  opener,  call  John  Knox  a  scoundrel, 
with  intensest  venom.  In  one  small  particular  you 
may  applaud  me.  He  showed  me  a  place  where  Lord 
Bute  is  scrabbling  up  the  ruins  of  an  old  Priory  and 
building  ugly  red  sandstone  imitations  on  the  founda- 
tions.    I  said, 

"  '  The  sacred  Keep  of  Ilion  is  rent 
With  shaft  and  pit ;  ' 

"  This  is  the  beginning  of  a  sonnet  by  Andrew 
Lang,  in  the  *  Sonnets  of  this  Century,'  mourning  the 
modern  prying  into  the  story  of  Troy. 

''  We  talked  of  dogs,  and  I  quoted  from  Stevenson's 
Essay.  He  also  has  written  an  attack  on  them,  having 
been  unaware  of  Stevenson's.  He  keeps  and  adores 
a  cat,  which  he  says  hates  him  .  .  .  While  in  the 
College  Library  Dr.  Boyd  (the  *  Country  Parson ') 
came  in  and  spoke  to  Mr.  Lang.  I  examined  the 
nearest  bookcase,  but  was  ware  of  the  C.P.'s  china 
blue  eye  upon  me,  and  he  presently  spoke  to  me. 
He  is  like  a  clean,  rubicund  priest,  with  a  high  nose ; 
more  than  all  he  is  like  a  creditable  ancestor  on  a 
wall,  and  should  have  a  choker  and  a  high  coat  collar. 


SAINT  ANDREWS  247 

He  told  me  that  his  wife  is  now  '  gloating  over  Char- 
lotte,' which  was  nice  of  him,  and  I  am  to  go  to  tea 
with  them  to-morrow.  Why  aren't  you  here  to  take 
your  share  ? 

"  I  said  to  Andrew  that  I  thought  of  going  to 
Edinburgh  on  Monday,  to  see  a  few  things,  and  he 
said  he  would  be  there  and  would  show  me  Holyrood. 
He  said  in  his  resigned  voice,  '  I'll  meet  you  anywhere 
you  like.'  ...  I  am  going  to  write  to  Mr.  Blackwood, 
who  has  asked  me  to  go  to  see  him.  I  will  ask  him 
if  he  would  like  the  '  Beggars.'  Andrew  L.  wants 
to  go  there  too,  so  we  may  go  together.  Now  you 
must  be  sick  of  A.  L.  and  I  will  mention  only  two  or 
three  more  things  about  him. 

"  He  put  a  notice  of  Charlotte  into  some  American 
magazine  for  which  he  writes,  before  he  knew  me.  I 
believe  it  is  a  good  one,  but  am  rather  shy  of  asking 
about  it.  You  will  be  glad  that  she  is  getting  a  lift 
in  America.  I  hope  some  of  your  artist  friends  will 
see  it.  He  told  me  that  Charlotte  treated  of  quite  a 
new  phase,  and  seemed  to  think  that  was  its  chiefest 
merit.  He  would  prefer  our  writing  in  future  more  of 
the  sort  of  people  one  is  likely  to  meet  in  everyday 
life.  He  put  his  name  in  the  Mark  Twain  Birthday 
Book,  and  I  told  him  you  had  compiled  it.  Lastly,  I 
may  remark  that  when  he  leaves  St.  Andrews  to- 
morrow, all  other  men  go  with  him,  as  far  as  I  am 
concerned,  or  rather  they  stay,  and  they  seem 
bourgeois  and  commonplace  (which  is  ungrateful,  and 
not  strictly  true,  and  of  course  there  are  exceptions, 
and,  chief  among  them,  my  nice  host,  and  Father  A., 
who  are  always  what  one  likes).  .  .  Post  has  come, 
bringing  a  most  unexpected  tribute  to  the  Real  C. 
from  T.  P.  O'Connor  in  the  Weekly  Sun.  It  is  really 
one  of  the  best,  and  best-written  notices  we  have 
ever  had.      I  read  it  with  high  gratification,  in  spite 


248  IRISH  MEMORIES 

of  his  calling  us  '  Shoneens  ' — (whatever  they  may  be) 
.  .  .  The  Editor  of  Black  and  White  has  written  asking 
for  something  about  St.  Andrews,  from  an  Irish  point 
of  view.  '  But  what  about  the  artist  ?  '  says  he. 
What  indeed  ?  And  I  don't  know  what  to  write 
about.  Everyone  has  written  about  St.  Andrews.  .  .  . 
I  saw  them  play  the  game  of  '  Curling,'  which  was 
funny,  like  bowls  played  on  ice,  with  big  round  stones 
that  slide.  The  friends  of  a  stone  tear  in  front  of  it 
as  it  slides,  sweeping  the  ice  with  twigs  so  as  to  further 
its  progress.  When  a  good  bowl  is  made  they  say 
'  Fine  stone  ! '     It  is  in  many  ways  absurd.  .  .  ." 

St.  Andrews,  Jan.  29.  '95. 

"...  The  dissipations  have  raged,  and  I  have 
been  much  courted  by  the  ladies  of  St.  Andrews. 
I  shall  not  come  back  here  again.  Having  created 
an  impression  I  shall  retire  on  it  before  they  begin 
to  find  me  out.    It  will  be  your  turn  next.  .  .  .  Mrs. 

Lang  wrote  to  say  that  the  B s,  with  whom  the 

Langs  were  staying  in  Edinburgh,  wanted  me  to  lunch 
there,  being  *  proud  to  be  my  compatriots.'  Professor 
B.  is  Irish,  and  is  professor  of  Greek  at  Edinburgh 
University,  and  Mrs.  B.  is  also  Irish.  .  .  .  Accord- 
ingly, yesterday  I  hied  me  forth  alone.  It  was  a 
lovely  hard  frost  here,  but  by  the  time  I  was  half  way 
— (it  is  about  two  hours  by  train) — the  snow  began.     I 

drove  to  the  B s,  along  Princes  Street,  all  horrible 

with  snow,  but  my  breath  was  taken  away  by  the 
beauty  of  it.  There  is  a  deep  fall  of  ground  along  one 
side,  where  once  there  was  a  lake,  then  with  one 
incredible  lep,  up  towers  the  crag,  three  hundred  feet, 
and  the  Castle,  and  the  ramparts  all  along  the  top.  It 
was  foggy,  with  sun  struggling  through,  and  to  see 
that  thing  hump  its  great  shoulder  into  the  haze  was 
fine.     You  know  what  I  think  of  Scott.     You  would 


SAINT  ANDREWS  249 

think  the  same  if  you  once  saw  Edinburgh.  It  was 
almost  overwhelming  to  think  of  all  that  has  happened 
there —     However,  to  resume,  before  you  are  bored. 

'•  Andhrew  he  resaved  me. 
So  dacent  and  so  pleasant, 
He's  as  nice  a  man  in  fayture 
As  I  ever  seen  before." 

(vide  Jimmy  and  the  Song  of  Ross).  He  is  indeed, 
and  he  has  a  most  correct  and  rather  effeminate 
profile.  No  one  else  was  in.  He  was  as  miserable 
about  the  snow  as  a  cat,  and  huddled  into  a  huge 
coat  lined  with  sable.  In  state  we  drove  up  to  the 
Castle  by  a  long  round,  and  how  the  horse  got  up 
that  slippery  hill  I  don't  know.  The  Castle  was  very 
grand  ;  snowy  courtyards  with  grey  old  walls,  and 
chapels,  and  dining-halls,  most  infinitely  preferable 
to  Frederiksborg.  The  view  should  have  been  noble  ; 
as  the  weather  was,  one  could  only  see  Scott's  monu- 
ment— a  very  fine  thing — and  a  very  hazy  town. 
It  is  an  awful  thing  to  look  over  those  parapets  ! 
A  company  of  the  Black  Watch  was  drilling  in  the  outer 
courtyard,  very  grand,  and  a  piper  went  strutting 
like  a  turkeycock,  and  skirling.  It  was  wild,  and  I 
stood  up  by  '  Mons  Meg  '  and  was  thrilled.  Is  it 
an  insult  to  mention  that  Mons  Meg  is  the  huge, 
historic  old  gun,  and  crouches  like  a  she-mastiff  on 
the  topmost  crag,  glaring  forth  over  Edinburgh  with 
the  most  concentrated  defiance  ?  You  couldn't  believe 
the  expression  of  that  gun.  I  asked  Andrew  L. 
whether  it  was  the  same  as  '  Muckle-mouthed  Meg,' 
having  vague  memories  of  the  name.  He  said  in  a 
dying  gasp  that  Muckle-mouthed  Meg  was  his  great- 
great-grandmother  !  That  was  a  bad  miss,  but  I 
preserved  my  head  just  enough  to  enquire  what  had 
become  of  the  '  Muckle  mouth.'  (I  may  add  that  his 
own  is   admirable.)     He   could   only  say   with   some 


250  IRISH  MEMORIES 

slight  embarrassment  that  it  must  have  gone  in  the 
other  line. 

"  We  solemnly  viewed  the  Regalia,  of  which  he 
knew  the  history  of  every  stone,  and  the  room  where 
James  VI  was  born,  a  place  about  as  big  as  a  dinner- 
table,  and  so  on,  and  his  information  on  all  was  petri- 
fying. Then  it  was  all  but  lunch  time,  but  we  flew 
into  St.  Giles'  on  the  way  home  to  see  Montrose's 
tomb.  A  more  beautiful  and  charming  face  than 
Montrose's  you  couldn't  see,  and  the  church  is  a  very 
fine  one.  An  old  verger  caught  sight  of  us,  and  in- 
stantly flung  to  the  winds  a  party  he  was  taking 
round,  and  endeavoured  to  show  us  everything,  in 
spite  of  A.  L.'s  protests.  At  length  I  firmly  said, 
*  Please  show  us  the  door.'  He  smiled  darkly,  and  led 
us  to  a  door,  which,  when  opened,  led  into  an  oaken 
and  carven  little  room.  He  then  snatched  a  book 
from  a  shelf — and  a  pen  and  ink  from  somewhere  else. 

"  '  I  know  distinguished  visitors  when  I  see  them  1 ' 
says  he,  showing  us  the  signatures  of  all  the  Royalties 
and  distinguished  people,  about  two  on  each  page. 
'  Please  write  your  names.' 

"  Andrew  wrote  his,  and  I  mine,  on  a  blank  sheet, 
and  there  they  remain  for  posterity.  Andrew  swears 
the  verger  didn't  know  him,  and  that  it  was  all  the 
fur  coat,  and  that  our  names  were  a  bitter  disappoint- 
ment— why  didn't  I  put '  Princess  of  Connemara  '  ? 

*'  Then  to  lunch.     The  B s  were  very  nice.     He  is 

tall  and  thin,  she  short,  both  as  pleasant  and  uncon- 
ventional and  easy  as  nice  Irish  people  alone  are.  After 
lunch  she  and  Mrs.  Lang  tackled  me  in  the  drawing- 
room  about  the  original  of  the  Real  C.  I  gaily  admitted 
that  she  was  drawn  from  life,  and  that  you  had  known 
her  a  thousand  times  better  than  I.  Then  I  told  them 
various  tales  of  her,  and,  without  thinking,  revealed 
her  name. 


SAINT  ANDREWS  251 

"  '  Oh  yes  1  '  says  Mrs.  B.  in  ecstasy,  '  she  was  my 
husband's  cousin  !  ' 

"  I  covered  my  face  with  my  hands,  and  I  swear 
that  the  blush  trickled  through  my  fingers.  I  then 
rose,  in  strong  convulsions,  and  attempted  to  fly  the 

house.     Professor  B was  called  in  to  triumph  over 

me,  and  said  that  she  was  only  a  very  distant  cousin, 
and  that  he  had  never  seen  her,  and  didn't  care  what 
had  been  said  of  her.  They  were  enchanted  about  it 
and  my  confusion,  and  they  have  asked  me  to  go  to 
their  place  in  Ireland,  with  delightful  cordiality  .  .  . 
Andrew  L.  and  I  then  walked  forth  to  Blackwood's,  a 
very  fine  old-fashioned  place,  with  interesting  pictures. 
We  were  instantly  shown  upstairs,  to  a  large,  pleasant 
room,  where  was  Mr.  Blackwood  ...  I  broached 
the  subject  of  the  '  Beggars,'  while  Andrew  stuck  his 
nose  into  a  book.  Mr.  Blackwood  said  he  would  like 
to  see  it.  .  .  .  Mr.  Lang  then  spoke  to  him  about 
an  article  on  Junius  that  he  is  writing,  and  I  put  my 
nose  into  a  book.  We  then  left.  There  was  no  time 
to  see  Holyrood.  .  .  .  Thus  to  the  train.  My  most 
comfortable  thought  during  the  two  hours'  journey 
home  was  that  in  talking  to  Mrs.  B.  I  had  placed 
Charlotte  on  your  shoulders  !  Andrew  L.  was  very 
kind,  and  told  me  that  if  ever  I  wanted  anything 
done  that  he  could  help  me  in,  that  he  would  do  it  .  .  . 
My  last  impression  of  him  is  of  his  whipping  out  of 
the  carriage  as  it  began  to  move  on,  in  the  midst  of 
an  account  of  how  Buddha  died  of  eating  roast  pork 
to  surfeit." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

AT   ]ETAPLES 

In  February,  1895,  I  met  Martin  in  London,  and 
found  her  in  considerable  feather,  consequent  on  her 
reviving  visit  to  St.  Andrews,  and  on  that  gorgeous 
review  in  which  we  had  been  called  hard  and  pitiless 
censors,  as  well  as  sardonic,  squalid,  and  merciless 
observers  of  Irish  life.  We  felt  this  to  be  so  uplifting 
that  we  lost  no  time  in  laying  the  foundations  of  a 
further  "  ferocious  narrative."  This  became,  in  pro- 
cess of  time,  "  The  Silver  Fox."  It  had  the  disadvan- 
tage, from  our  point  of  view,  of  appearing  first  in  a 
weekly  paper  (since  defunct).  This  involved  a  steady 
rate  of  production,  and  recurring  "  curtains,"  which 
are  alike  objectionable  ;  the  former  to  the  peace  of 
mind  of  the  author,  while  the  latter  are  noxious 
trucklings  to  and  stimulation  of  the  casual  reader. 
That,  at  least,  is  how  the  stipulated  sensation  at 
the  end  of  each  weekly  instalment  appeared  to  us 
at  the  time,  and  I  have  seen  no  reason  for  relinquish- 
ing these  views.  "  The  Silver  Fox,"  like  most  of 
our  books,  was  the  victim  of  many  interruptions ; 
it  was  finished  in  1896,  and  as  soon  as  its  weekly 
career  was  careered,  it  was  sold  to  Messrs.  Lawrence 
and  Bullen,  who  published  it  in  October,  1897.  It  was 
a  curious  coincidence  that  almost  in  the  same  week  we 
hunted  a  silver-grey  fox  with  the  West  Carbery  hounds. 


AT  tlTAPLES  258 

The  hunt  took  place  on  Friday,  the  13th  of  the  month, 
we  lost  the  fox  in  a  quarry-hole,  in  which  a  farmer  had, 
at  the  bidding  of  a  dream,  dug,  fruitlessly,  and  at  much 
expense,  for  fairy  gold,  and  two  of  our  horses  were  very 
badly  cut.  I  saw  the  Silver  Fox  break  covert,  it  was 
the  Round  Covert  at  Bunalun,  and  by  all  the  laws  of 
romance  I  ought  to  have  broken  my  neck ;  but  the 
Powers  of  Darkness  discredited  him,  and  neither  he 
nor  I  were  any  the  worse  for  the  hunt.  I  do  not 
remember  ever  seeing  him  again,  and  I  presume  he 
returned  immediately  to  the  red  covers  (without  a  t) 
of  our  book,  from  which  he  had  been  given  a  temporary 
outing. 

It  was  in  May  and  June,  1895,  that  we  spent  a  happy 
and  primitive  fortnight  in  one  of  the  Isles  of  Aran  ; 
we  have  described  it  in  "  Some  Irish  Yesterdays," 
and  it  need  not  be  further  dealt  with,  though  I  may 
quote  from  my  diary  the  fact  that  on  "  May  22. 
M.  &  I  rescued  a  drowning  child  by  the  quay,  and  got 
very  wet  thereby.  Several  Natives  surveyed  perform- 
ance, pleased,  but  calm,  and  did  not  offer  assistance." 

In  July,  an  entirely  new  entertainment  was  kindly 
provided  for  us  by  a  General  Election ;  our  services 
were  requisitioned  by  the  Irish  Unionist  Alliance, 
and  with  a  deep,  inward  sense  of  ignorance  (not  to 
say  of  play-acting),  we  sailed  forth  to  instruct  the 
East  Anglian  elector  in  the  facts  of  Irish  politics.  It 
was  a  more  arduous  mission  than  we  had  expected, 
and  it  opened  for  us  a  window  into  English  middle- 
class  life  through  which  we  saw  and  learned  many 
unsuspected  things.  Notably  the  persistence  of 
English  type,  and  the  truth  that  was  in  George  Eliot. 
We  met  John  Bunyan,  unconverted,  it  is  true,  but 
unmistakably  he  ;  cobbling  in  a  roadside  stall,  full 
of  theories,  and  endowed  by  heredity  with  a  splendid 
Biblical  speech  in  which  to  set  them  forth.     Seth  Bede 


254  IRISH  MEMORIES 

was  there,  a  house-painter  and  a  mystic,  with  trans- 
parent, other-worldly  blue  eyes  and  a  New  Testament 
standard  of  ethics.  Dinah  Morris  was  there  too,  a 
female  preacher  and  a  saintly  creature,  who  shamed 
for  us  the  play-acting  aspect  of  the  affair  into  abeyance, 
and  whose  high  and  serious  spirit  recognised  and  met 
Martin's  spirit  on  a  plane  far  remote  from  the  sordid 
or  ludicrous  controversies  of  electioneering. 

These  few  and  elect  souls  we  met  by  chance  and 
privilege,  not  by  intention.  We  had  been  given 
"  professional "  people,  mainly,  as  our  victims. 
Doctors,  lawyers,  and  non- conforming  parsons  of 
various  denominations.  It  taught  us  an  unforgettable 
lesson  of  English  honesty,  level-headedness,  and  open- 
mindedness.  Also  of  English  courtesy.  With  but 
a  solitary  exception,  we  were  received  and  listened  to, 
seriously,  and  with  a  respect  that  we  secretly  found 
rather  discomposing.  They  took  themselves  seriously, 
and  their  respect  almost  persuaded  us  that  we  were 
neither  actors  nor  critics,  but  real  people  with  a  real 
message.  The  whole  trend  of  Irish  politics  has 
changed  since  then.  Every  camp  has  been  shifted, 
many  infallibles  have  failed.  I  am  not  likely  to  go 
on  the  stump  again,  but  I  shall  ever  remember  with 
pride  that  on  this,  our  single  entry  into  practical 
politics,  our  man  got  in,  and  that  a  Radical  poster 
referred  directly,  and  in  enormous  capital  letters,  to 
Martin  and  me  as  "  IRISH  LOCUSTS." 

I  went  to  Aix-les-Bains  a  year  or  two  after  this. 
It  was  the  first  of  several  experiences  of  that  least 
oppressive  of  penalties  for  the  sins  of  your  forefathers, 
if  not  of  your  own.  There  was  one  year  when  among 
the  usual  number  of  kings  and  potentates  was  one  of 
the  Austrian  Rothschilds.  With  him  was  an  in- 
separable private  secretary,  who  had  been,  one  would 
say,  cut  with  a  fret-saw  straight  from  an  Assyrian 


AT  STAPLES  255 

bas-relief.  His  profile  and  his  crimped  beard  were  as 
memorable  as  the  example  set  by  M.  le  Baron  to  the 
gamblers  at  the  Cercle.  Followed  by  a  smart  crowd 
in  search  of  a  sensation,  the  Baron  and  the  Secretary 
moved  to  the  table  of  "  Les  Petits  Chevaux,^'  and 
people  waited  to  see  the  Bank  broken  in  a  single  coup. 
The  Baron  murmured  a  command  to  the  Profile.  The 
Profile  put  a  franc  on  "  Egalite.''  "  Egalite  "  won. 
The  process  was  repeated  until  the  Baron  was  the 
winner  of  ten  francs,  when  the  couple  retired,  and 
were  seen  there  no  more,  and  one  began  to  understand 
why  rich  men  are  rich.  There  was  one  dazzling  night 
with  "  the  little  horses  "  when  I  found  myself  steering 
them  in  the  Chariot  of  the  Sun.  I  could  not  make 
a  mistake  ;  where  I  led,  the  table,  with  gamblers' 
instant  adoption  of  a  mascot,  followed.  I  found 
myself  famous,  and  won  forty-five  francs.  Alas  I 
I  was  not  Baron  de  Rothschild,  or  even  the  Assyrian 
Profile,  and  the  rest  is  silence. 

From  Aix  I  went  to  Boulogne,  and  meeting  Martin 
there,  we  moved  on  to  Etaples,  which  was,  that 
summer  (1898),  the  only  place  that  any  self-respecting 
painter  could  choose  for  a  painting  ground.  Cazin, 
and  a  few  others  of  the  great,  had  made  it  fashionable, 
and  there  were  two  "  Classes  "  there  (which,  for  the 
benefit  of  the  uninitiated,  are  companies  of  personally- 
conducted  art-students,  who  move  in  groups  round  a 
law-giver,  and  paint  series  of  successive  landscapes, 
that,  in  their  one-ness  and  yet  progressiveness,  might 
be  utilised  with  effect  as  cinematograph  backgrounds). 
We  found,  by  appointment,  at  Etaples  a  number  of 
our  particular  friends,  "  Kinkie,"  "  Madame  La-La," 
"  The  Dean,"  Helen  Simpson,  Anna  Richards,  a 
pleasingly  Irish-American  gang,  with  whom  we  had 
worked  and  played  in  Paris.  The  two  or  three  small 
hotels  and  boarding-houses  were  full  of  painters,  and 


256  IRISH  MEMORIES 

the  Quartier  Latin  held  the  town  in  thrall.  As  far, 
at  least,  as  bedrooms,  studios,  and  feeding  places  were 
concerned.  Sheds  and  barns  and  gardens,  all  were 
absorbed ;  everyone  gave  up  everything  to  MM.  Les 
Etrangers;  everyone,  I  should  say,  who  had  been 
confirmed.  Confirmation  at  Etaples  was  apparently 
of  the  nature  of  the  Conversion  of  St.  Paul  in  its 
effect  upon  the  character.  After  confirmation,  instant 
politeness  and  kindness  to  the  stranger  within  their 
gates  characterised  the  natives ;  prior  to  that  ceremony, 
it  is  impossible  to  give  any  adequate  impression  of  the 
atrocity  of  the  children  of  the  town.  If  an  artist 
pitched  his  easel  and  hoisted  his  umbrella  on  any  spot 
unsurrounded  by  a  ten-foot  wall,  he  was  immediately 
mobbed  by  the  unconfirmed.  The  procedure  was 
invariable.  One  chose,  with  the  usual  effort,  the 
point  of  view.  One  set  one's  palette  and  began  to 
work.  A  child  strayed  round  a  corner  and  came  to  a 
dead  set.  It  retired  ;  one  heard  its  sabots  clattering 
as  it  flew.  Presently,  from  afar,  the  clatter  would  be 
renewed,  an  hundred-fold  ;  shrill  cries  blended  with 
it.  Then  the  children  arrived.  They  leaned  heavily 
on  the  shoulders  of  the  painter,  and  were  shaken  off. 
They  attempted,  often  successfully,  to  steal  his 
colours.  They  postured  between  him  and  his  subject, 
dancing,  and  putting  forth  their  tongues.  They  also 
spat. 

The  maddened  painters  made  deputations  to  the 
Mayor,  to  the  Cure,  to  the  Police,  and  from  all  received 
the  same  reply,  that  mediant  as  the  children  undeniably 
were  now,  they  would  become  entirely  sage  after 
confirmation.  We  did  not  attempt  to  dispute  the 
forecast,  but  our  contention  that,  though  consolatory 
to  parents,  it  was  of  no  satisfaction  to  us,  was  ignored 
by  the  authorities.  Therefore,  in  so  far  as  was 
possible,  we  took  measures  into  our  own  hands.     I 


AT  ETAPLES  257 

wrote  home  for  a  hunting-crop,  and  Martin  took 
upon  herself  the  varying  yet  allied  offices  of  Chucker- 
out  and  Whipper-in.  She  was  not  only  fleet  of  foot, 
but  subtle  in  expedient  and  daring  in  execution.  I 
recall  with  ecstasy  a  day  when  a  wholly  loathsome  boy, 
to  whose  back  a  baby  appeared  to  be  glued,  was  put  to 
flight  by  her  with  the  stick  of  my  sketching-umbrella. 
Right  across  the  long  Bridge  of  Staples  he  fled, 
howling  ;  the  baby,  crouched  on  his  shoulders,  sitting 
as  tight  as  Tod  Sloan,  while  Martin,  filled  with  a 
splendid  wrath,  belaboured  him  heavily  below  the 
baby,  ceasing  not  until  he  had  plunged,  still  howling, 
into  a  fisherman's  cottage.  Another  boy,  tending 
cattle  on  the  marshes,  drove  a  calf  in  front  of  us,  and, 
with  a  weapon  that  might  have  been  the  leg  of  a 
table,  beat  it  sickeningly  about  the  eyes.  In  an 
instant  Martin  had  snatched  the  table-leg  from  him 
and  hurled  it  into  a  wide  dyke,  the  next  moment  she 
had  sent  his  cap,  skimming  like  a  clay  pigeon,  across 
it,  and  "  Madame  La-La "  (who  is  six  feet  high), 
rising,  cobra-like,  from  the  lair  in  which  she  had 
concealed  herself  from  the  enemy,  chased  the  calf 
from  our  neighbourhood.  Later,  we  heard  him 
indicate  Martin  to  his  fellows. 

''*' Elle  est  mechante,  celle  la!^"* — and,  to  our  deep 
gratification,  the  warning  was  accepted. 

In  those  far-off  times  Paris  Plage  and  Le  Touquet 
were  little  more  than  names,  and  were  represented 
by  a  few  villas  and  chalets  of  fantastic  architecture 
peppered  sparsely  among  the  sand-dunes  and  in  the 
little  fairy-tale  forests  of  toy  pine-trees  that  divided 
Etaples  from  Le  Touquet.  There  was  a  villa,  whose 
touching  name  of  "  Home,  Swet  Home,"  appealed 
to  the  heated  wayfarer,  where  now  a  Red  Cross 
hospital  is  a  stepping-stone  to  "  Home,"  for  many  a 
British  wayfarer  who  has  fallen  by  the  way,  and  pale 

s 


258  IRISH  MEMORIES 

English  boys,  in  blue  hospital  kit,  lie  about  on  the 
beach  where  we  have  sat  and  sketched  the  plump 
French  ladies  in  their  beautiful  bathing  dresses. 

It  was  among  Cazin's  sand-dunes,  possibly  on  the 
very  spot  where  Hagar  is  tearing  her  hair  over 
Ishmael  (in  his  great  picture,  which  used  to  hang  in 
the  Luxembourg),  that  the  "  Irish  R.M."  came  into 
existence.  During  the  previous  year  or  two  we  had, 
singly  and  jointly,  been  writing  short  stories  and 
articles,  most  of  which  were  republished  in  a  volume, 
"  All  on  the  Irish  Shore."  Many  of  these  had  appeared 
in  the  Badminton  Magazine,  and  its  editor  now 
requested  us  to  write  for  it  a  series  of  such  stories. 
Therefore  we  sat  out  on  the  sand  hills,  roasting  in 
the  great  sunshine  of  Northern  France,  and  talked, 
until  we  had  talked  Major  Sinclair  Yeates,  R.M., 
and  Flurry  Knox  into  existence.  "  Great  Uncle 
MacCarthy's  "  Ghost  and  the  adventure  of  the  stolen 
foxes  followed,  as  it  were,  of  necessity.  It  has  always 
seemed  to  us  that  character  presupposes  incident. 
The  first  thing  needful  is  to  know  your  man.  Before 
we  had  left  Etaples,  we  had  learned  to  know  most  of 
the  people  of  the  R.M.'s  country  very  well  indeed, 
and  all  the  better  for  the  fact  that,  of  them  all, 
"  Slipper "  and  "  Maria "  alone  had  prototypes  in 
the  world  as  we  knew  it.  All  the  others  were  members 
of  a  select  circle  of  which  Martin  and  I  alone  had  the 
entree.  Or  so  at  least  we  then  believed,  but  since,  of 
half  a  dozen  counties  of  Ireland,  at  least,  we  have 
been  categorically  and  dogmatically  assured  that 
"  all  the  characters  in  the  R.M."  lived,  moved,  and 
had  their  being  in  them,  we  have  almost  been  forced 
to  the  conclusion  that  there  were  indeed  six  Richmonds 
in  every  field,  and  that,  in  the  spirit,  we  have  known 
them  all. 

The   illustrations  to  the   first  and  second  of  the 


AT  tlTAPLES  259 

stories  were  accomplished  at  Staples,  and,  in  the 
dearth  of  suitable  models,  Martin,  and  other  equally 
improbable  victims,  had  to  be  sacrificed.  One  piece 
of  luck  fell  to  me  in  the  matter.  I  wished  to  make 
an  end-drawing,  for  the  first  story,  of  a  fox,  and  I 
felt  unequal  to  evolving  a  plausible  imitation  from 
my  inner  consciousness.  It  may  not  be  believed,  but 
it  is  a  fact  that,  as,  one  afternoon,  I  crossed  the 
Bridge  of  Etaples,  I  met  upon  it  a  man  leading  a 
young  fox  on  a  chain,  a  creature  as  mysteriously 
heaven-sent  as  was  the  lion  to  the  old  "  Man  of  God.'* 


s  2 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

*  PARIS    AGAIN 

We  returned  to  Drishane  in  October,  having  by 
that  time  written  and  illustrated  the  third  story  of 
the  series.  Which  was  fortunate,  as  on  the  first  of 
November,  "  November  Day  "  as  we  call  it  in  Carbery, 
we  went  a-hunting,  and  under  my  eyes  Martin  "  took 
a  toss  "  such  as  I  trust  I  may  never  have  to  see 
again.  It  happened  in  the  middle  of  a  run ;  there 
was  a  bar  across  an  opening  into  a  field.  It  was  a 
wooden  bar,  with  bushes  under  it,  and  it  was  not  very 
high,  but  firmly  fixed.  I  jumped  it,  and  called  to 
her  to  come  on.  The  horse  she  was  riding.  Dervish, 
was  a  good  hunter,  but  was  cunning  and  often  lazy. 
He  took  the  bar  with  his  knees,  and  I  saw  him  slowly 
fall  on  to  his  head,  and  then  turn  over,  rolling  on 
Martin,  who  had  kept  too  tightly  her  grip  of  the 
saddle.  Then  he  struggled  to  his  feet,  but  she  lay 
still. 

It  was  two  months  before  she  was  able  again  to 
"  lift  her  hand  serenely  in  the  sunshine,  as  before," 
or  so  much  as  take  a  pen  in  it,  and  several  years  before 
she  could  be  said  to  have  regained  such  strength  as 
had  been  hers.  Nothing  had  been  broken,  and  she 
had  entirely  escaped  disfigurement,  even  though  the 
eye-glasses,  in  which  she  always  rode,  had  cut  her 
brow ;    but  one  of  the  pummels  of  the  saddle  had 


PARIS  AGAIN  261 

bruised  her  spine,  and  the  shock  to  a  system  so  highly- 
strung  as  hers  was  what  might  be  expected.  The 
marvel  was  that  so  fragile  a  creature  could  ever  have 
recovered,  but  her  spirit  was  undefeated,  and  long 
before  she  could  even  move  herself  in  bed,  she  had 
begun  to  work  with  me  again,  battling  against  all 
the  varied  and  subtle  sufferings  that  are  known  only 
to  those  who  have  damaged  a  nerve  centre,  with  the 
light-hearted  courage  that  was  so  conspicuously  hers. 
During  the  second  half  of  that  black  November  we 
were  writing  "  The  Waters  of  Strife,"  which  is  the 
fourth  story  of  the  "  R.M."  series.  Its  chief  incident 
was  the  vision  which  came  to  the  central  figure  of 
the  story,  of  the  face  of  the  man  he  had  murdered. 
This  incident,  as  it  happened,  was  a  true  one,  and 
was  the  pivot  of  the  story.  We  had  promised  a 
monthly  story,  and  in  order  to  keep  faith,  we  had 
written  it  with  an  effort  that  had  required  almost  more 
than  we  had  to  give.  The  story  now  appears  in  our 
book  as  we  originally  wrote  it,  but  on  its  first  appear- 
ance in  the  Badminton  Magazine  a  passage  had  been 
introduced  by  an  alien  and  unsolicited  collaborator, 
and  "  various  jests  "  had  been  "  eliminated  as  unfit  " 
for,  one  supposes,  the  sensitive  readers  of  the  magazine. 
Sometimes  one  wonders  who  are  these  ethereal  beings 
whose  sensibilities  are  only  shielded  from  shock  by 
the  sympathetic  delicacy  of  editors.  I  remember  once 
before  being  crushed  by  another  editor.  I  had  drawn, 
from  life,  for  the  Connemara  Tour,  a  portrait  of 
"  Little  Judy  from  Menlo,"  a  Gal  way  beggar-woman 
of  wide  renown.  It  was  returned  with  the  comment 
that  "  such  a  thing  would  shock  delicate  ladies." 
So,  as  the  song  says,  "  Judy  being  bashful  said 
*  No,  no,  no  ' !  "  and  returned  to  private  hfe.  Another 
and  less  distinguished  beggar-woman  once  said  to  me 
of  the  disappointments  of  life, 


262  IRISH  MEMORIES 

"  Such  things  must  be,  Miss  Somerville,  my  darlin' 
gerr'l !  "  and  authors  must,  one  supposes,  submit 
sometimes  to  be  sacrificed  to  the  susceptibihties  of 
the  ideal  reader. 

The  twelve  "  R.M."  stories  kept  us  desperately  at 
work  until  the  beginning  of  August,  1899.  Looking 
back  on  the  writing  of  them,  each  one,  as  we  finished 
it,  seemed  to  be  the  last  possible  effort  of  exhausted 
nature.  Martin  hardly  knew,  through  those  strenuous 
months,  what  it  was  to  be  out  of  suffering.  Even 
though  it  cannot  be  denied  that  we  both  of  us  found 
enjoyment  in  the  writing  of  them,  I  look  back  upon 
the  finish  of  each  story  as  a  nightmare  effort.  Copying 
our  unspeakably  tortuous  MS.  till  the  small  hours  of 
the  morning  of  the  last  possible  day  ;  whirling  through 
the  work  of  the  illustrations  (I  may  confess  that  one 
small  drawing,  that  of  "  Maria  "  with  the  cockatoo 
between  her  paws,  was  done,  as  it  were  "  between 
the  stirrup  and  the  ground,"  while  the  horse,  whose 
mission  it  was  to  gallop  in  pursuit  of  the  postman, 
stamped  and  raged  under  my  studio  windows).  By 
the  time  the  last  bundle  had  been  dispatched  Martin 
and  I  had  arrived  at  a  stage  when  we  regarded  an 
ink-bottle  as  a  mad  dog  does  a  bucket  of  water.  Rest, 
and  change  of  air,  for  both  of  us,  was  indicated.  I 
was  sent  to  Aix,  she  went  to  North  Wales,  and  we 
decided  to  meet  in  Paris  and  spend  the  winter  there. 

In  the  beginning  of  October,  1899,  we  established 
ourselves  in  an  appartement  in  the  Boulevard  Edgar 
Quinet,  and  there  we  spent  the  next  four  months. 

Looking  back  through  our  old  diaries  I  recognise 
for  how  little  of  that  time  Martin  was  free  from 
suffering  of  some  kind.  The  effects  of  the  hunting 
accident,  and  the  strain  of  writing,  too  soon  under- 
taken, were  only  now  beginning  to  come  to  their  own. 
Neuralgia,    exhaustion,    backaches,    and   all   the    in- 


PARIS  AGAIN  268 

describable  miseries  of  neurasthenia  held  her  in  thrall. 
It  is  probable  that  the  bracing  tonic  of  the  Paris 
climate  saved  her  from  a  still  worse  time,  but  she  had 
come  through  her  reserves,  and  was  now  going  on 
pluck.  We  wrote,  desultorily,  when  she  felt  equal  to 
it,  and  I  worked  at  M.  Delecluse's  studio  in  the 
mornings,  and,  with  some  others,  assisted  Mr.  Cyrus 
Cuneo,  a  young,  and  then  unknown,  American,  in 
getting  up  an  "  illustration  class  "  in  the  afternoons. 
Most  people  have  seen  the  brilliant  black  and  white 
illustrations  that  Mr.  Cuneo  drew  for  the  Illustrated 
London  News  and  other  papers  and  magazines,  and 
his  early  death  has  left  a  blank  that  will  not  easily  be 
filled.  He  could  have  been  no  more  than  four  or 
five  and  twenty  when  I  met  him,  and  he  was  already 
an  extraordinarily  clever  draughtsman.  He  was  small, 
dark,  and  exceedingly  good-looking,  with  a  peculiarly 
beautiful  litheness,  balance,  and  swiftness  of  move- 
ment, that  was  to  some  extent  explained  by  the  fact 
that  before  he  took  up  Art  he  had  occupied  the  exalted 
position  of  "  Champion  Bantam  of  the  South  Pacific 
Slope  "  ! 

At  that  juncture  we  were  all  mad  about  a  peculiar 
style  of  crayon  drawing,  which,  as  far  as  we  were 
concerned,  had  been  originated  by  Cuneo,  and  about 
a  dozen  of  us  took  a  studio  in  the  Passage  Stanilas, 
and  worked  there,  from  the  most  sensational  models 
procurable.  Cuneo  was  "  Massier  " ;  he  found  the 
models,  and  posed  them  (mercilessly),  and  we  all 
worked  like  tigers,  and  brutally  enjoyed  the  strung-up 
sensation  that  comes  from  the  pressure  of  a  difficult 
pose.  Each  stroke  is  Now  or  Never,  every  instant  is 
priceless.  Pharaoh  of  the  Oppression  was  not  firmer 
in  the  matter  of  letting  the  Children  of  Israel  go, 
than  we  were  with  those  unhappy  models.  I  console, 
myself  by  remembering  that  a  good  model  has   a 


264  IRISH  MEMORIES 

pride  in  his  endurance  in  a  difficult  pose  that  is  as 
sustaining  as  honest  and  just  pride  always  is.  Never- 
theless, when  I  look  over  these  studies,  and  see  the 
tall  magician,  peering,  on  tip-toe,  over  a  screen, 
and  the  High-priest  denouncing  the  violation  of  the 
sanctuary,  and  the  unfortunate  Arab,  half  rising  from 
his  couch  to  scan  the  horizon,  I  recognise  that  for 
these  models,  though  Art  was  indisputably  long.  Time 
could  hardly  have  been  said  to  be  fleeting. 

Mr.  Whistler  was  at  that  time  in  Paris,  and  had 
a  morning  class  for  ladies  only,  and  it  was  in  their 
studio  that  we  had  our  class.  It  was  large,  well- 
lighted,  with  plenty  of  stools  and  easels  and  a  sink 
for  washing  hands  and  brushes.  It  also  was 
thoroughly  insanitary,  and  had  a  well-established 
reputation  for  cases  of  typhoid.  As  a  precautionary 
measure  we  always  kept  a  certain  yellow  satin  cushion 
on  the  mouth  of  the  sink ;  this,  not  because  of  any 
superstition  as  to  the  colour,  or  the  cushion,  but 
because  there  was  no  other  available  "  stopper  for 
the  stink."  (Thus  uneo,  whose  language,  if  free, 
was  always  well  chosen.)  One  of  our  members  was 
a  very  clever  American  girl,  who  had  broken  loose 
from  the  bondage  of  the  Whistler  class.  There,  it 
appeared  from  her,  if  you  had  a  soul,  you  could  not 
think  of  calling  it  your  own.  It  was  intensively 
bossed  by  Mr.  Whistler's  Massiere,  on  the  lines  laid 
down  by  Mr.  Whistler,  until,  as  my  friend  said,  you 
had  "  no  more  use  for  it,  and  were  just  yelling  with 
nerves."  The  model,  whether  fair,  dark,  red,  white, 
or  brown,  had  to  be  seen  through  Mr.  Whistler's 
spectacles,  and  these,  judging  by  the  studies  that  were 
occasionally  left  on  view,  were  of  very  heavily  smoked 
glass.  When  it  came  to  the  Massiere  setting  my 
American  friend's  palette,  and  dictating  to  her  the 
flesh    tones,    the    daughter    of   the    Great    Republic 


CHEZ    CUNEO. 


PARIS  AGAIN  265 

observed  that  she  was  used  to  a  free  country,  and 
shook  the  dust  off  her  feet,  and  scraped  the  mud  off 
her  palette,  and  retired.  An  interesting  feature  of 
the  studio  was  that  many  sheets  of  paper  on  which 
Mr.  Whistler  had  scribbled  maxim  and  epigram 
were  nailed  on  its  walls,  for  general  edification,  and 
it  might  have  served  better  had  his  lieutenant  allowed 
these  to  influence  the  pupils,  unsupported  by  her 
interpretations.  Since  then  I  have  met  some  of  these 
pronouncements  in  print,  but  I  will  quote  one  of 
those  that  I  copied  at  the  time,  as  it  bears  on  the  case 
in  point. 

"  That  flesh  should  ever  be  low  in  tone  would  seem 
to  many  a  source  of  sorrow,  and  of  vast  vexation,  and 
its  rendering,  in  such  circumstance,  an  unfailing 
occasion  of  suspicion,  objection,  and  reproach  ;  each 
objection — which  is  the  more  fascinating  in  that  it 
would  seem  to  imply  superiority  and  much  virtue 
on  the  part  of  the  one  who  makes  it — is  vaguely 
based  upon  the  popular  superstition  as  to  what  flesh 
really  is — when  seen  on  canvas,  for  the  people  never 
look  at  Nature  with  any  sense  of  its  pictorial  appear- 
ance, for  which  reason,  by  the  way,  they  also  never 
look  at  a  picture  with  any  sense  of  Nature,  but 
unconsciously,  from  habit,  with  reference  to  what 
they  have  seen  in  other  pictures.  Lights  have  been 
heightened  until  the  white  of  the  tube  alone  remains. 
Shadows  have  been  deepened  until  black  only  is 
left !  Scarcely  a  feature  stays  in  its  place,  so  fierce 
is  its  intention  of  firmly  coming  forth.  And  in  the 
midst  of  this  unseemly  struggle  for  prominence,  the 
gentle  truth  has  but  a  sorry  chance,  falling  flat  and 
flavourless  and  without  force." 

No  one  who  has  not  lived,  as  we  did,  the  life  of 
"  The  Quarter  "  can  at  all  appreciate  its  charm.  In 
description — as  I  have  already  had  occasion  to  say — 


266  IRISH  MEMORIES 

it  is  usual,  and  more  entertaining,  to  dwell  upon  the 
disasters  of  daily  life,  but  though  these,  thanks  to  a 
bonne  a  tout  faire,  and  a  perfidious  stove,  were  not 
lacking,  Martin  and  I,  and  our  friends,  enjoyed  our- 
selves. Small  and  select  tea-parties  were  frequent ; 
occasionally  we  aspired  to  giving  what  has  been  called 
by  a  gratified  guest  in  the  County  Cork  "  a  nice, 
ladylike  little  dinner,"  and  in  a  letter  of  my  own  I 
find  an  account  of  a  more  unusual  form  of  entertain- 
ment which  came  our  way. 

"  A  friendly  and  agreeable  American,  who  works 
in  the  Studio,  asked  us  to  come  and  see  her  in  her 
rooms,  away  back  of  Saint  Sulpice.  When  we  got 
there  we  found,  as  well  as  my  American  friend, 
a  little  incidental,  casual  mother,  whom  she  had 
not  thought  worth  mentioning  before.  She  just  said, 
briefly, 

"  '  Oh,  this  is  Mother,'  which,  after  all,  sufficed. 

"  '  Mother '  was  a  perfect  specimen  of  one  of  the 
secret,  serf-like  American  mothers,  who  are  concealed 
in  Paris,  put  away  like  a  pair  of  warm  stockings,  or 
an  old  waterproof,  for  an  emergency.  She  was  a 
nice,  shrivelled,  little  old  thing,  very  kind  and  polite. 
Their  room,  which  was  about  six  inches  square,  had 
little  in  it  save  a  huge  and  catafaltic  bed  with  deep 
crimson  curtains ;  the  window  curtains  were  deep 
crimson,  the  walls,  which  were  brown,  had  panels 
of  deep  crimson.  Hot  air  welled  into  the  room  through 
gratings.  We  sat  and  talked,  and  looked  at  picture 
postcards  for  a  long  time,  and  our  tongues  were 
beginning  to  hang  out,  from  want  of  tea,  and  suffoca- 
tion, when  the  daughter  said  something  to  the  mother. 

"  There  was  then  produced,  from  a  sort  of  hole  in 
the  wall,  sweet  biscuits,  and  a  bottle  of  wine,  the 
latter  also  deep  crimson  (to  match  the  room,  no  doubt). 
It  was  a  fierce  and  heady  vintage.     I  know  not  its 


PARIS  AGAIN  267 

origin,  I  can  only  assure  you  that  in  less  than  two 
minutes  from  its  consumption  our  faces  were  tremen- 
dously en  suite  with  the  curtains.  We  tottered 
home,  clinging  to  each  other,  and  lost  our  way  twice." 
We  had  ourselves  an  opportunity  of  offering  a  some- 
what unusual  form  of  hospitality  to  two  of  our 
friends,  the  occasion  being  nothing  less  than  the 
expected  End  of  the  World.  This  was  timed  by  the 
newspapers  to  occur  on  the  night  of  Novenber  15, 
and  I  will  allow  Martin  to  describe  what  took  place. 
The  beginning  part  of  the  letter  gives  the  history  of 
one  of  those  curious  and  unlucky  coincidences  of 
which  writing-people  are  more  often  the  victims  than 
is  generally  known,  and  for  this  reason  I  will  transcribe 
it  also. 

V.  F.  M.  to  Mrs.  Martin.     (Nov.  23,  1899.) 

"...  The  story  for  the  Christmas  number  of 
the  Homestead  came  to  a  most  untimely  end  ;  not 
that  it  was  untimely,  as  we  were  at  the  very  limit 
of  time  allowed  for  sending  it  in.  It  was  finished, 
and  we  were  just  sitting  down  to  copy  it,  when  I 
chanced  to  look  through  last  year's  Xmas  No.  (which, 
fortunately,  we  happened  to  have  here,)  in  order  to 
see  about  the  number  of  words.  I  then  made  the  dis- 
covery that  one  of  the  stories  last  Christmas,  by  Miss 
Jane  Barlow,  no  less  !  was  built  round  the  same  idea 
as  ours  ;  one  or  two  incidents  quite  startlingly  alike, 
so  much  so  that  one  couldn't  possibly  send  in  ours. 
It  read  like  a  sort  of  burlesque  of  Miss  Barlow's,  and 
would  never  have  done.  There  was  no  time  to  re- 
write it,  so  all  we  could  do  was  to  write  and  tell  the 
Editor  what  had  happened,  and  make  our  bows. 
E.  sent  him  a  sketch,  as  an  amende^  which  he  has 
accepted  in  the  handsome  and  gentlemanlike  spirit 
in  which  it  was  offered,  and  I  sent  him  a  little  dull 


268  IRISH  MEMORIES 

article  ^  that  I  happened  to  have  here,  on  the  chance 
that  it  might  do  to  fill  a  corner,  and  it  is  to  appear 
with  E.'s  sketch.  But  I  am  afraid,  though  he  was  very 
kind  about  it,  that  these  things  have  not  at  all  consoled 
the  Editor,  who  wanted  a  story  like  the  *  R.M.'s.' 

"  Nothing  very  interesting  has  happened  here  since 
the  night  of  '  The  Leonids,'  the  Shower  of  Stars  that 
was  to  have  happened  last  week.  There  was  much 
excitement  in  Paris,  at  least  the  newspapers  were 
excited.  On  my  way  to  the  dentist  a  woman  at  the 
corner  of  the  boulevard  was  selling  enormous  sheets 
of  paper,  with  '  La  Fin  du  Monde,  a  trois  heures ! ' 
on  them,  and  a  gorgeous  picture  of  Falbe's  comet 
striking  the  earth.  It  was  then  1.30,  but  I  thought 
I  had  better  go  to  the  dentist  just  the  same.  I  believe 
that  lots  of  the  poor  people  were  very  much  on  the 
jump  about  it.  The  Rain  of  Meteors  was  prophesied 
by  the  Observatory  here  for  that  night,  and  Kinkie, 
and  the  lady  whom  we  call '  Madame  La  La,'  arranged 
to  spend  the  night  in  our  sitting  room  (which  has  a 
good  view  of  the  sky  in  two  aspects).  We  laid  in 
provender  and  filled  the  stove  to  bursting,  and  our 
visitors  arrived  at  about  9.30  p.m.  It  really  was  very 
like  a  wake,  at  the  outset.  The  stipulation  was  that 
they  were  to  call  us  if  anything  happened  ;  I  went  to 
bed  at  10.30,  E.  at  midnight,  and  those  unhappy 
creatures  sat  there  all  night,  and  nothing  happened. 
They  saw  three  falling  stars,  and  they  made  tea  three 
times  (once  in  honour  of  each  star),  and  they  also 
had  '  Maggi,'  which  is  the  French  equivalent  for 
Bovril,  and  twice  as  nice.  During  the  night  I  could 
hear  their  stealthy  steps  going  to  and  fro  to  the 
kitchen  to  boil  up  things  on  the  gas  stove.     In  the 

1  This  article  was  subsequently  incorporated  in  Martin  Ross's 
sketch  "  Children  of  the  Captivity  "  and  is  reprinted  in  "  Some 
Irish  Yesterdays." 


PARIS  AGAIN  269 

awful  dawn  they  crept  home,  and,  I  hear,  turned  up 
at  the  Studio  looking  just  the  sort  of  wrecks  one  might 
have  expected. 

"  I  believe  that  they  did  see  a  light  go  sailing  up 
from  the  Dome  of  the  Observatoire,  (which  we  can  see 
from  here)  and  that  was  a  balloon,  containing  a  lady 
astronomer.  Mademoiselle  Klumpke,  (who  is,  I  believe 
an  American)  and  others.  She  sailed  away  in  the 
piercing  cold  to  somewhere  in  the  South  of  Switzerland, 
and  I  believe  she  saw  a  few  dozen  meteors.  Anyhow, 
two  days  afterwards,  she  walked  into  Kinkie's  studio, 
bringing  a  piece  of  mistletoe,  and  some  flowers  that 
she  had  gathered  when  she  got  out  of  the  balloon 
down  there." 

The  South  African  War  made  life  in  Paris,  that 
winter,  a  school  of  adversity  for  all  English,  or 
nominally  English,  people.  Each  reverse  of  our  Army 
— and  if  one  could  believe  the  French  papers  it  would 
seem  that  such  took  place  every  second  day — was 
snatched  at  by  the  people  of  Paris  and  their  newspapers 
with  howls  of  delight.  Men  in  the  omnibuses  would 
thrust  in  our  faces  La  Patrie,  or  some  such  paper,  to 
exhibit  the  words  "  Encore  un  Ecrasement  Anglais  .'  ", 
in  large,  exultant  letters,  filling  a  page.  Respectable 
old  gentlemen,  in  "  faultless  morning  dress,"  would 
cry  "  Oh  yais  !  "  as  we  passed  ;  large  tongues  would 
be  exhibited  to  us,  till  we  felt  we  could  have  diagnosed 
the  digestions  of  the  Quarter.  At  last  our  turn  came, 
and  when  the  Matin  had  a  line,  "  Capitulation  de 
Cronje,''^  writ  large  enough  for  display,  Martin  made 
an  expedition  in  an  omnibus  down  "  The  Big  Boule- 
vards "  for  no  purpose  other  than  to  flaunt  it  in  the 
faces  of  her  fellow  passengers. 

To  Martin,  who  was  an  intensely  keen  politician, 
the  aloofness  of  many  of  the  art-students  whom  she 
met,   from  the   War,   the   overthrow  of  the  French 


270  IRISH  MEMORIES 

Government,  from,  in  fact,  any  question  on  any  subject 
outside  the  life  of  the  studio,  was  a  constant  amaze- 
ment. 

In  a  letter  from  her  to  one  of  her  sisters  she  releases 
her  feelings  on  the  subject. 

V.  F.  M.  to  Mrs.  Cuthbert  Dawson. 
(Paris,  Nov.  29,  1899.) 

"  The  French  papers  are  realising  that  a  mistake 
has  been  made  in  the  attacks  on  the  Queen,  and  the 
better  ones  are  saying  so.  But  the  Patrie,  the  Libre 
Parole,  and  all  that  fleet  of  halfpenny  papers  that 
the  poor  read,  have  nailed  their  colours  to  the  mast, 
and  it  seems  as  if  their  idea  is  to  overthrow  their 
present  Government  by  fair  means  or  foul.  As  long 
as  this  Government  is  in  there  will  be  no  quarrel 
with  England,  but  it  might,  of  course,  go  out  like  a 
candle,  any  day.  I  daresay  you  have  heard  the  Rire 
spoken  of  as  one  of  the  papers  that  ought  to  be 
suppressed.  We  bought  the  number  that  was  to  be 
all  about  the  English,  and  all  about  them  it  was,  a 
sort  of  comic  history  of  England  since  the  Creation, 
with  Hyde  Park  as  the  Garden  of  Eden.  The  cover 
was  a  hauntingly  horrible  picture  of  Joan  of  Arc 
being  burned.  The  rest  of  the  pictures  were  dull, 
disgusting,  and  too  furiously  angry  to  be  clever.  We 
had  pleasure  in  consigning  the  whole  thing  to  the 
stove.  .  .  .  The  students  here,  with  exceptions,  of 
course, — appear  deaf  and  blind  to  all  that  goes  on,  and 
Revolutions  in  Paris,  and  the  War  in  the  Transvaal, 
are  as  nothing  to  them  as  compared  with  the  pose  of 
the  model.  In  every  street  are  crowds  of  them, 
scraping  away  at  their  charcoal  '  academies '  by 
the  roomful,  all  perfectly  engrossed  and  self-centred, 
and,  I  think,  quite  happy.  Last  Sunday  we  went  to 
a  mild  little  tea-party  in  a  studio,  where  were  several 


PARIS  AGAIN  271 

of  these  artist- women,  in  their  best  clothes,  and  some- 
where in  the  heart  of  the  throng  was  a  tiny  hideosity, 
an  American,  (who  has  a  studio  in  which  R.  B.  once 
worked,)  fat,  bearded,  and  unspeakably  common,  but 
interesting.^  Holding  another  court  of  the  women  was 
a  microbe  English  artist,  an  absurd  little  thing  to 
look  at,  but,  I  believe,  clever  ;  I  hear  that  on  weekdays 
he  dresses  like  a  French  workman  and  looks  like  a  toy 
that  you  would  buy  at  a  bazaar.  No  one  talked 
anything  but  Art,  except  when  occasionally  one  of 
the  hostesses  (there  were  four)  hurriedly  asked  me 
what  I  thought  of  the  Rubaiyat  of  Omar  Khayyam, 
or  how  two  people  managed  to  write  together,  just  to 
show  what  good  hostesses  they  were,  while  all  the 
while  they  tried  to  listen  to  the  harangues  of  the 
microbe  or  the  hideosity.  Poor  things,  it  was  very 
nice  of  them,  and  I  was  touched.  There  are  about 
half  a  dozen,  that  I  know  here,  who  take  an  English 
paper ;  it  is  a  remarkable  thing  that  they  are  nearly 
all  Irish  and  Scotch,  and  have  baths." 


^  Of  this  same  American  a  tale  is  told  which  might,  I  think,  had 
she  known  it,  have  mitigated  Martin's  disapproval.  One  of  the 
more  futile  of  his  pupils  showed  him  a  landscape  that  she  had 
painted.     He  regarded  it  for  some  time  in  silence,  then  he  said  : 

"  Did  you  see  it  like  that  ?  " 

"Oh  yes,  Mr.  L !  "  twittered  the  pupil. 

"  And  did  you  feel  it  Hke  that  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  Mr.  L ,  indeed  I  did  !  " 

"  Wal,"  said  Mr.  L ,  smoothly,  "  the  next  time  you  see  and 

feel  hke  that,  don't  'paint !  " 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

HORSES    AND    HOUNDS 

With  Flurry's  Hounds,  and  you  our  guide, 
We  learned  to  laugh  until  we  cried ; 
Dear  Martin  Ross,  the  coming  years 
Find  all  our  laughter  lost  in  tears. 

—Punch,  Jan.  19,  1916. 

I  HAVE  thought  of  leaving  it  to  our  books  to  express 
and  explain  the  part  that  hunting  has  played  in  Martin's 
life  and  mine  ;  but  when  I  remember  (to  quote  once 
again  those  much-quoted  lines)  how  much  of  the  fun 
that  we  have  had  in  our  lives  has  been  "  owed  to  horse 
and  hound,"  I  feel  an  acknowledgment  more  direct 
and  deliberate  is  due. 

Almost  the  first  thing  that  I  can  remember  is  the 
duplicity  of  my  grandfather  on  my  behalf  in  the 
matter  of  the  hounds.  He  had  been  forbidden  by 
his  doctor  to  hunt ;  he  had  also  been  forbidden  by 
the  ladies  of  his  household  to  permit  the  junior  lady 
of  that  establishment,  then  aged  five,  to  "  go  anywhere 
near  the  hounds."  None  the  less,  by  a  succession  of 
remarkable  accidents,  not  wholly  disconnected  with 
the  fact  that  my  grandfather  had  had  the  West  Carbery 
hounds  himself  at  one  time  and  knew  the  country  as 
well  as  the  foxes  did,  he  and  I  rarely  missed  a  sight  of 
them,  and,  on  one  memorable  day,  we  cut  in  at  a 
moment  that  bestowed  upon  us  the  finish  of  the  run 


HORSES  AND  HOUNDS  278 

and  gained  for  me  the  brush.  Absurdly  bestowed, 
of  course,  but  none  the  less  glorious.  The  glory  was 
dimmed  a  little  by  the  fact  that  just  after  the  presen- 
tation had  been  made  my  pony  rolled,  and  a  kind 
but  tactless  young  man  picked  me  up,  like  a  puppy, 
and  deposited  me  on  my  saddle,  instead  of  mounting 
me  as  a  gentleman  should  mount  a  lady.  Neverthe- 
less, I  can  confidently  say  that  the  proudest  moment 
of  my  life  was  when  I  rode  home  with  the  brush. 

My  grandfather  had  hunted  for  a  few  seasons,  when 
he  was  a  young  man,  with  what  he,  after  the  fashion 
of  his  day,  called  "  the  Dook  of  Beaufort's  "  hounds. 
He  brought  over  a  West  Carbery  horse.  Diamond 
by  name,  a  flea-bitten  grey,  and  he  earned  for  his 
owner  the  honourable  title  of  "  That  damned  Irish- 
man." There  is  an  old  saying,  "  Nothing  stops  a 
Carbery  man,"  and  I  imagine  that  the  title  aforesaid 
was  applied  with  special  fervour  when  the  hunt  went 
into  the  stone-wall  country  and  Diamond  began  to 
sing  songs  of  Zion  and  enjoy  himself. 

Hunting  in  West  Carbery  died  out  when  I  was  a 
child,  and  the  hounds  were  in  abeyance  for  many 
years.  Political  troubles  and  bad  times  generally 
had  led  to  their  temporary  extinction,  and  such  hunt- 
ing as  came  my  way  was  in  countries  far  from  Carbery. 
Of  the  Masters  of  those  days  not  one  is  now  left. 
Hard  goers  and  good  sportsmen  all  round,  and  men 
too,  many  of  them,  of  the  old-fashioned  classical 
culture.  It  is  told  of  the  last  of  that  old  brigade  that 
during  his  last  illness,  a  short  time  before  he  died,  he 

said  he  supposed  he  "  would  d d  soon  be  shooting 

woodcock  in  Mars  with  Johnny  B."  (who  was  another 
of  the  same  heroic  mould),  and  if  his  supposition  was 
justified,  the  Martian  cock  are  likely  to  have  had 
a  bad  time  of  it. 

In  1891  my  brother  Aylmer  restarted  the  old  West 

T 


274  IRISH  MEMORIES 

Carbery  foxhounds,  and  then  indeed  did  that  madness 
of  the  chase,  of  which  we  have  treated  in  "  Dan 
Russel  the  Fox,"  descend  upon  us  all.  The  first  step 
in  the  affair  was  the  raising,  by  means  of  concerts, 
public  meetings,  and  mendicancy  generally,  a  sum  of 
money  ;  the  second  was  the  purchase  of  a  small  pack 
from  a  private  owner.  These  arrived  with  the  title  of 
"  B.'s  Rioters,"  and  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  we 
rioted  with  them.  It  was,  at  first,  all  thoroughly 
informal  and  entirely  delightful ;  later  we  fell  into 
the  grip  of  professionals,  who  did  things  as  they  should 
be  done,  and  inflicted  decorum  upon  us  and  the 
Rioters.  The  days  of  "  Danny- O  "  and  "  Patsey 
Sweeny "  passed,  and  the  thrill  died  out  of  the 
diaries. 

No  longer  are  such  items  to  be  found  as  : 

"  Jack,  Martin,  and  I  took  hounds  to  walk  out 
with  Patsey.  Came  on  a  hare."  (This  means  that 
we  went  to  look  for  a  hare,  ardently  and  with  patience.) 
"  Ran  her  for  two  and  a  half  hours,  all  on  our  own 
miserable  legs.  Lost  her  in  darkness.  All  pretty 
tired  when  we  got  back  to  kennels." 

Or  again.  "  Aylmer,  Martin,  and  I  went  to  kennels 
and  christened  the  new  draft,  seven  and  a  half  couple 
of  puppies.  Coupled  them  and  tried  to  take  them 
out.  The  instant  they  were  coupled  they  went  stark 
mad  and  fought,  mostly  in  the  air ;  it  looked  like  a 
battle  of  German  heraldic  eagles." 

Other  entries,  which  I  decline  to  make  public,  relate 
to  drags,  disreputably  laid,  for  disreputable  reasons, 
and  usually  dedicated  to  English  visitors,  who  did 
not  always  appreciate  the  attention. 

My  brother  kept  the  hounds  going  for  twelve 
seasons,  during  which  we  had  the  best  of  sport  and 
learned  to  know  the  people  and  the  country  in  the  way 
that  hunting  alone  can  teach.     After  his  long  term 


THE    WEST  CARBERY  HOUNDS. 


HORSES  AND  HOUNDS  275 

of  office  had  ended,  a  farmer  summed  up  for  me  the 
opinion  that  the  country  people  had  of  him  : 

'*  He  was  the  King  of  the  world  for  them  !  If  he 
rode  his  horses  into  their  beds  they'd  ask  no  better  !  ** 

When  he  gave  up  in  1903,  I  followed  him  in  the 
Mastership,  which  I  have  held,  with  an  interval  of 
four  years,  ever  since.  "  Of  all  sitivations  under  the 
sun,  none  is  more  enviable  or  'onerable  than  that  of 
a  Master  of  fox'ounds,"  Mr.  Jorrocks  observes,  and 
further  states  that  his  "  'ead  is  nothin'  but  one  great 
bump  of  'untin' !  "  I  do  not  say  that  things  have 
gone  as  far  as  this  with  me,  but  I  will  admit  that  the 
habit  of  keeping  hounds  is  a  very  clinging  one. 

Many  congratulations  and  much  encouragement 
were  bestowed  upon  me  when  I  bought  the  hounds 
and  took  office,  but  warnings  were  not  wanting.  A 
friend,  himself  a  Master  of  Hounds,  wrote  to  me  and 
said  that  it  required  "  the  patience  of  Job,  and  the 
temper  of  a  saint,  and  the  heart  of  a  lion,  to  navigate 
a  pack  of  foxhounds,'*  and  there  have  undoubtedly 
been  occasions  when  for  me  the  value  of  all  these 
attributes  was  conspicuously  proved  by  their  absence 
at  need. 

If  Mr.  Jorrocks's  estimate  of  the  job  is  to  be  accepted, 
it  is,  from  my  point  of  view,  chiefly  in  the  kennels 
that  the  "  enviable  "  aspect  of  mastership  is  to  be 
found.  I  have  spoken  of  three  hounds,  specially 
beloved,  but  the  restriction  of  the  number  is  only 
made  out  of  consideration  for  those  readers  whose 
patience  could  stand  no  more.  It  is  customary  to 
despise  the  ignorant  and  unlearned  in  hound  matters, 
but  I  have  too  often  witnessed  their  sufferings  to 
do  aught  save  pity.  To  be  a  successful  kennel 
visitor  is  given  to  so  few.  I  have  sometimes  wondered 
which  is  most  to  be  pitied,  the  sanguine  huntsman, 
drawing  his  hounds  one  by  one,  in  the  ever-renewed 

T  2 


276  IRISH  MEMORIES 

belief  that  he  has  found  an  admirer  who  knows  how 
to  admire,  ending  in  bitterness  and  "  letting  them 
all  come  "  ;  or  the  straining  visitor,  groping  for  the 
right  word  and  praising  the  wrong  hound.  In  one 
of  Mr.  Howell's  books  there  is  a  certain  "  Tom  Corey," 
who,  though  without  a  sense  of  humour,  yet  feels 
a  joke  in  his  heart  from  sheer  lovableness.  Even 
so  did  one  of  my  aunts  feel  the  hounds  in  her  heart. 
Her  sympathy  and  admiration  enchanted  my  hunts- 
man ;  he  waxed  more  and  more  eloquent,  and  all 
would  have  been  well  had  not  "  Tatters,"  a  broken- 
haired  fox-terrier,  come  into  view. 

"  Oh  !  "  exclaimed  my  Aunt  S.  rapturously,  "  what 
a  darling  little  hound  !  I  like  it  the  best  of  them 
all !  " 

The  disaster  of  a  sigh  too  much,  or  a  kiss  too  long, 
was  never  more  tragically  exemplified. 

Subsequently  she  was  heard  describing  her  visit 
to  the  kennels  ;  amongst  other  details  she  noted  with 
admiration  that  L.,  the  huntsman,  and  I  knew  the 
name  of  each  hound. 

"  Edith  is  wonderful !  "  she  said  fervently,  "  she 
knows  them  all !  If  she  wants  one  of  them  she  just 
says,  '  Here,  Spot !   Spot !   Spot !  '  " 

One  gathered  that  the  response  to  this  classic 
hound  name  was  instant. 

Huntsmen  have,  in  their  way,  almost  as  much  to 
put  up  with  as  writers  in  the  matter  of  cross-examina- 
tion. 

"  And  do  you  really  know  them  ?  Each  one  ?  " 

"  And  have  they  all  got  names  ?  " 

Then,  upon  explanation  that  there  are  enough 
names  to  go  round,  "  And  do  you  absolutely  know 
them  all  ?  " 

L.,  like  Tom  Corey,  was  unsustained  by  a  sense 
of  humour,  and  nothing  but  his  lovableness  enabled 


HORSES  AND  HOUNDS  277 

him  to  fulfil  that  most  difficult  of  Christian  duties, 
to  suffer  fools  gladly. 

"  Lor,  Master,  what  silly  questions  they  do  ask !  " 
he  has  permitted  himself  to  say  sometimes,  when 
all  was  over.  Yet,  as  I  have  said,  sympathy  should 
also  be  reserved  for  the  inquirers.  Insatiable  as  is 
the  average  mother  for  admiration  of  her  young, 
she  is  as  water  unto  wine  compared  with  a  huntsman 
and  his  hounds.  Few  people  have  put  a  foot  deeper 
into  trouble  than  I  have  myself,  on  the  occasion  of 
a  visit  to  a  very  smart  pack  in  England.  I  had, 
I  hope,  come  respectably  through  a  minute  inspection 
of  the  hounds,  and,  that  crucial  trial  safely  past, 
the  Queen  of  Sheba  tottered,  spent,  but  thankful 
for  preservation,  into  the  saddle-room,  a  vast  and 
impressive  apartment,  there  to  be  shown,  and  to 
express  fitting  admiration  for,  the  trophies  of  the 
chase  that  adorned  it.  All  round  the  panelled  walls 
were  masks,  beautifully  mounted,  grinning  and  snarl- 
ing over  their  silver  name-plates.  And  I,  accustomed 
to  the  long- jawed  wolves  that  we  call  foxes  in  West 
Carbery,  said  in  all  good  faith, 

"  What  a  number  of  cubs  you  have  killed  !  " 

The  Master  said,  icily,  that  those  were  foxes,  and 
the  subject  dropped. 

Poor  L.  is  dead  now ;  a  keener  little  huntsman 
never  blew  a  horn,  but  he  never  quite  succeeded  in 
hitting  it  off  with  the  farmers  and  country  people  ; 
they  were  incomprehensible  to  each  other,  alike  in 
speech  and  in  spirit.  L.  despised  anyone  who  got 
out  of  bed  later  than  5  a.m.,  winter  and  summer 
alike,  and  would  boast  of  having  got  all  his  work 
done  before  others  were  out  of  their  beds,  which  was 
trying  to  people  with  whom  early  rising  is  not  a 
foible.  He  found  it  impossible  to  divine  the  psy- 
chology of  the  lads  who  jovially  told  him  that  they  had 


278  IRISH  MEMORIES 

seen  the  fox  and  had  "  cruisted  him  well  "  (which 
meant  that  they  had  stoned  him  back  into  covert 
when  he  tried  to  break).  It  is  hard  to  kill  foxes 
in  Carbery,  and  L.  was  much  exercised  about  the 
frequent  disappointments  that  them  pore  'ounds  had 
to  endure  as  a  result  of  bad  earth-stopping.  One 
wet  day,  on  arriving  at  the  meet,  I  found  him  in 
a  state  of  high  indignation.  The  covert  we  were 
to  draw  was  a  very  uncertain  find,  and  it  transpired 
that  L.  had  secretly  arranged  with  the  farmer  on 
whose  land  it  was,  that  he  was  to  turn  down  a  bag- 
man in  it.  "  He  said  he  could  get  one  easy,  and  you'd 
'ardly  think  it,  Master,  but  the  feller  tells  me  now 
it  was  a  tame  fox  of  'is  own  he  was  going  to  turn 
down,  and  now  he  says  to  me  he  thinks  the  day  is 
too  wet  to  bring  out  such  a  little  pet !  '  A  little  pet  !  ' 
'e  says  !  " 

The  human  voice  is  incapable  of  an  accent  of 
more  biting  scorn  than  L.  imparted  to  his  as  he 
spoke  these  words.  I  am  unable  to  determine  if 
L.'s  wrath  were  attributable  to  the  farmer's  heart- 
lessness  in  having  been  willing  to  hunt  a  tame  fox, 
or  to  his  affectation  of  consideration  for  it,  or  whether 
it  was  the  result  of  rage  and  disappointment  on 
behalf  of  the  hounds.     I  incline  to  the  last  theory. 

I  have  hunted  with  a  good  many  packs  in  Ireland 
of  very  varying  degrees  of  grandeur,  and  Ireland  is 
privileged  in  unconventionalism ;  nevertheless,  it  was 
in  England,  with  a  highly  fashionable  Leicestershire 
pack,  that  I  was  privileged  to  behold  an  incident 
that  might  have  walked  out  of  the  pages  of  Charles 
Lever  into  the  studio  of  Randolph  Caldecott. 

I  had  brought  over  a  young  mare  to  ride  and  sell ; 
she  and  I  were  the  guests  of  two  of  the  best  riders 
in  England  and  the  nicest  people  in  the  world  (which 
is   sufficient  identification  for  those  that  know  the 


HORSES  AND  HOUNDS  279 

couple  in  question).  It  was  my  first  day  with  an 
English  pack  and  it  had  been  a  good  one.  Hunting 
for  the  day  was  at  an  end,  and  we  had  turned  our 
horses  for  home,  when  the  fight  flared  up.  High 
on  the  ridge  of  a  hill,  dark  against  a  frosty  evening 
sky,  I  can  still  see  the  combatants,  with  their  whips 
in  the  air,  laying  in  to  each  other  happily  and  whole- 
heartedly for  quite  a  minute  or  two,  before  peace- 
makers came  rushing  up,  and  what  had  been  a  pretty, 
old-fashioned  quarrel  was  patted  down  into  a  com- 
monplace, to  be  dealt  with  by  the  family  solicitors. 

I  had  had  my  own  little  fracas  that  day.  The 
young  mare  was  hot,  and  took  me  over  a  place  which 
included  a  hedge,  and  a  wet  ditch,  and  an  old  gentle- 
man who  had  waited  in  the  ditch  while  his  horse 
went  on.  I  feared,  from  what  I  could  gather  as  I 
proceeded  on  my  way,  that  he  was  annoyed,  but 
as  I  had  caught  sight  of  him  just  in  time  to  tell  him 
to  lie  down,  I  could  not  feel  much  to  blame. 

I  had  an  English  huntsman  for  two  or  three  seasons 
whose  keenness  was  equalled  (rather  unexpectedly) 
by  his  piety.  He  was  an  extraordinarily  hard  man 
to  go  ("  No  silly  joke  of  a  man  to  ride,"  as  I  have 
heard  it  put),  and  his  excitement  when  hounds  began 
to  run  would  release  itself  in  benedictions. 

"  Gawd  bless  you.  Governor  boy !  Gawd  bless 
you,  Rachel  my  darling !  Come  along.  Master ! 
Come  along  !  He's  away,  thank  Gawd  !  He's  away  !  " 

There  was  a  day  when  hounds  took  us  across  a 
bad  bit  of  bog  and  there  checked.  Harry,  the  whipper- 
in,  also  an  Englishman,  and  not  learned  in  bogs, 
got  in  rather  deep.  His  horse  got  away  from  him, 
and  while  he  was  floundering,  waist-deep  in  black 
and  very  cold  bog-water,  he  saw  the  hunted  fox 
creeping  into  a  patch  of  furze  and  rocks.  He  holloa'd 
to  G.,  who  galloped  up  as  near  as  was  advisable. 


280  IRISH  MEMORIES 

"  Where  is  'e,  'Arry  ?  "  he  roared. 

"  Be'ind  o'  them  rocks  'e  went.  I  wouldn't  'a 
seen  'im  only  for  gettin'  into  this  somethin'  'ole," 
replied  Harry,  dragging  himself  out  of  the  slough. 
"  Can't  ye  catch  me  'orse  ?  " 

"  That's  all  right,  'Arry  !  You  wouldn't  'a  viewed 
'im  only  for  the  'ole.  All  things  works  together  for 
good  with  them  that  loves  Gawd  !  " 

With  which  G.  laid  on  his  hounds,  and  left  Harry 
to  comfort  himself  with  this  reflection  and  to  catch 
his  horse  when  he  could. 

G.'s  word  in  season  reminds  me  of  a  prayer  that 
my  nephew,  Paddy  Coghill  (whose  infant  devotions 
have  already  been  referred  to),  offered  on  his  sixth 
birthday,  one  "  Patrick's  Day  in  the  morning." 

"  And  oh,  Lord  God,  make  it  a  good  day  for  hunting, 
and  make  me  sit  straight  on  Kelpie,  and  show  me 
how  to  hold  my  reins." 

He  subsequently  went  to  the  meet,  himself  and 
pony  so  covered  with  shamrock  that  Tim  C.  (the 
then  huntsman)  told  him  the  goats  would  eat  him. 
I  cannot  now  vouch  for  the  first  clause  of  the  petition 
having  been  granted,  but  the  R.F.A.  Riding  School 
has  guaranteed  that  the  latter  ones  were  fulfilled. 

It  is  impossible  for  me  to  write  a  chapter  about 
hunting  without  speaking  of  Bridget,  a  little  grey 
mare  who  is  bracketed  with  Candy,  "  Equal  First." 
I  have  been  so  happy  as  to  have  owned  many  good 
hunters.  Lottery,  by  Speculation,  a  chestnut  mare 
who  died  untimely,  staked  by  a  broken  bough  in 
a  gap  (and,  strangely  enough,  her  brother,  "  Spec," 
is  the  only  other  horse  who  has  in  this  country, 
thank  heaven,  had  the  same  hard  fate) ;  Tarbrush, 
a  black  but  comely  lady,  of  whom  it  was  said  that 
she  was  "  a  jumper  in  airnest,  who  would  face  up 
and   beyond   anything   she   could   see,"   and   would. 


HORSES  AND  HOUNDS  281 

if  perturbed  in  temper,  go  very  near  to  "  kicking 
the  stars  out  of  the  sky  "  ;  Little  Tim,  a  pocket 
Hercules,  worthy  to  be  named  with  George  Sorrow's 
tremendous  "  Irish  cob  "  ;  and  Kitty,  whose  flippancy 
is  such  that  it  has  been  said  to  have  consoled  the 
country  boys  for  a  blank  day.  "  They  were  well 
satisfied,"  said  a  competent  judge,  "  Kitty  filled  their 
eye." 

But,  as  with  Candy  among  dogs,  so,  among  horses, 
Bridget  leads,  the  rest  nowhere.  Her  father  was  a 
thoroughbred  horse,  her  mother  a  Bantry  mountain 
pony.  She  herself  was  very  little  over  15  hands 
1  inch,  and  she  succeeded  in  combining  the  cunning 
and  goat-like  activity  of  the  spindle  side  of  the 
house  with  all  the  heroic  qualities  of  her  father's 
family. 

"  She  has  a  plain  head,"  said  a  rival  horse-coper, 
who  had  been  so  unfortunate  as  not  to  have  seen  her 
before  I  did,  "  but  that  suits  the  rest  of  her  !  " 

I  suppose  it  was  a  plain  head,  but  anyone  who  had 
sat  behind  it  and  seen  its  ears  prick  at  sight  of  the 
coming  "  lep  "  would  not  think  much  of  its  plainness. 
I  hunted  her  for  ten  seasons,  and  she  never  gave  me 
a  fall  that  was  not  strictly  necessary.  Since  her 
retirement  from  the  Hunt  stables  she  has  acted  as 
nursery  governess  to  a  succession  of  rising  riders, 
and  at  the  age  of  seventeen  she  carried  Martin  for 
a  season,  and  thought  little,  with  that  featherweight, 
of  keeping  where  both  of  them  loved  to  be,  at  "  the 
top  of  the  Hunt." 

The  West  Carbery  Hunt  was  once  honoured  by  a  visit 
from  an  American  hunting  woman,  a  lady  who  had 
been  sampling  various  British  hunts  and  who  was  a 
critic  whose  good  opinion  was  worth  having.  She 
was  an  accomplished  rider  and  a  very  hard  goer, 
and  her  enjoyment  of  such  sport  as  we  were  able 


282  IRISH  MEMORIES 

to  show  her  was  eminently  gratifying.  She  made, 
however,  one  comment  upon  the  country  which  has 
not  been  forgotten.  We  had  a  ringing  fox  who  rather 
overdid  his  anxiety  to  show  the  visitor  a  typical 
West  Carbery  line.  He  took  us  round  and  about  a 
particularly  typical  hill  more  often  than  was  requisite, 
and  he  declined  to  demonstrate  the  fact  that  we 
possessed  any  grass  country,  or  any  sound  and  civilised 
banks.  Our  visitor  had  the  hunt,  such  as  it  was, 
with  the  best,  and  spoke  with  marked  enthusiasm 
of  the  agility  of  our  horses.  Later  I  heard  her 
discussing  the  events  of  the  day. 

"  We  jumped  one  place,"  said  my  visitor,  "  and  I 
said  to  myself,  '  Well,  I  suppose  that  never  on  God's 
earth  shall  I  see  a  thing  like  that  again  ! '  And  a/ter 
that,"  she  went  on,  "  we  jumped  it  five  times." 

I  might  prolong  this  chapter  indefinitely  with 
stories  of  hunting ;  of  old  times  in  Meath,  with 
Captain  "  Jock  "  Trotter,  or  Mr.  John  Watson,  when 
Martin  and  I  hunted  there  with  our  cousins,  Ethel 
and  Jim  Penrose  ;  of  characteristically  blazing  gallops 
with  the  Galway  Blazers,  in  recent  years,  ably  piloted 
by  Martin's  eldest  brother,  Jim  Martin ;  of  many 
a  good  day  at  home  in  our  own  country.  But  an 
end  must  be  made,  and  this  chapter  may  fitly  close 
with  a  letter  of  Martin's.  The  hunt  of  which  she 
writes  did  not  take  place  with  the  West  Carbery, 
but  the  country  she  describes  is  very  similar  to  ours, 
and  the  incidents  might  as  well  have  occurred  here. 

V.  F.  M.  to  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Campbell.    (December.) 

"  We  had  an  unusual  sort  of  hunt  the  other  day, 
when  the  hounds,  unattended,  put  a  fox  out  of  a 
very  thick  wood  and  up  a  terrible  hill ;  when  we 
caught  them  up  there  ensued  much  scrambling  and 
climbing ;   there  were   even  moments   when,   having 


HORSES  AND  HOUNDS  288 

a  bad  head,  I  was  extremely  frightened,  and,  in  the 
middle  of  all  this,  a  fallow  doe  joined  up  from  behind, 
through  the  riders,  and  got  away  over  the  hill-top. 
To  the  doe  the  hounds  cheerfully  attached  themselves, 
and  we  had  much  fun  out  of  it,  and  it  was  given  to 
us  to  see,  as  they  went  away,  that  one  hound  had  a 
rabbit  in  his  mouth.  It  is  not  every  day  that  one 
hunts  a  fox,  a  deer  and  a  rabbit  at  the  same  moment. 
It  was  like  old  hunting  scenes  in  tapestry.  C,  the 
old  huntsman,  and  his  old  white  horse  went  like 
smoke  in  the  boggy,  hilly  country.  It  was  pleasant 
to  see,  and  the  doe  beat  the  hounds  handsomely 
and  got  back  safely  to  the  wood,  to  which,  in  the 
meantime,  the  fox  had  strolled  back  by  the  avenue. 

"  Last  week  we  drew  another  of  the  minor  moun- 
tains of  this  district,  and  the  new  draft  got  away 
like  lightning  after  a  dog  !  who  fled  over  a  spur  of 
the  hill  for  his  paternal  home.  All  went  out  of 
sight,  but  the  row  continued.  C.  sat  and  blew  his 
horn,  and  the  poor  Whip  nearly  burst  himself  trying 
to  get  round  them.  Then  they  reappeared,  half  the 
pack  by  this  time,  going  like  mad,  and  no  dog  in 
front  of  them  !  We  then  had  a  vision  of  an  old  hump- 
backed man  with  a  scythe,  like  the  conventional 
figure  of  '  Time,'  set  up  against  a  furzy  cliff,  mowing 
at  the  hounds  in  the  full  belief  that  they  were  going 
to  pull  him  down.  They  swept  on  up  the  hill  and 
disappeared,  having,  in  the  excursion  with  the  dog, 
put  up  a  fox  !  E.  had  divined  it  and  got  away  with 
them.  By  cleaving  to  C.  I  caught  them  all  right, 
otherwise  I  should  have  been  left  with  everyone 
else  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  saying  funny  things 
about  the  dog.  It  was  touching  to  hear  C.  saying 
to  E.  in  triumph,  '  Where  are  your  English  hounds 
now.  Miss  ?  '  She  had  praised  the  United,  and  this 
sank    into   the    soul    of   C,   and   indeed   it  was   his 


284  IRISH  MEMORIES 

beloved  black-and-tan  Kerry  beagles  and  Scalliwags 
who  were  in  front,  and  the  rest  not  in  sight.  The 
new  English  draft  were  probably  occupied  in  crossing 
themselves  instead  of  the  country— for  which  I  don't 
blame  them.  Personally,  however,  I  feel  as  if  an 
open  grass  country,  and  a  smart  pack,  and  a  sound 
horse,  would  be  very  alarming." 

The  reference  to  "  a  sound  horse  "  may  be  explained 
by  the  fact  that  owing  to  her  exceeding  short  sight 
we  insisted  on  her  being  mounted  only  on  old  and 
thoroughly  reliable  hunters,  who  were  able  to  take 
care  of  her  as  well  as  of  themselves  ;  it  need  hardly 
be  added  that  such  will  not  invariably  pass  a  vet. 

It  was  ten  years  from  the  date  of  her  bad  accident 
before  she  was  able  to  get  out  hunting  again ;  this 
chapter  may  well  end  with  what  she  then  wrote  to 
Mrs.  Campbell. 

"  I  have  once  more  pottered  forth  with  the  hounds, 
and  have  had  some  real  leps,  and  tasted  the  wine 
of  life  again." 

♦  ♦  ♦  *  *  4: 

There  are  some  whose  names  will  never  be  forgotten 
in  Carbery  who  will  drink  no  more  with  us  what 
Martin  Ross  has  called  the  Wine  of  Life.  For  her 
that  cup  is  set  aside,  and  with  her  now  are  three  of 
the  best  of  the  lads  whose  pride  and  pleasure  it  used 
to  be  to  wear  the  velvet  cap  of  the  hunt  servant, 
and  to  turn  hounds  in  West  Carbery.  Gallant  sol- 
diers, dashing  riders,  dear  boys  ;  they  have  made  the 
supreme  sacrifice  for  their  country,  and  they  will 
ride  no  more  with  us. 

The  hunt  goes  on ;  season  follows  season ;  the 
heather  dies  on  the  hills  and  the  furze  blossoms 
again  in  the  spring.  Other  boys  will  come  out  to 
follow  hounds,  and  learn  those  lessons  that  hunting 


HORSES  AND  HOUNDS  285 

best  can  teach,  but  there  will  never  be  better  than 
those  three :  Ralph  and  Gerald  Thornycroft,  and 
Harry  Becher. 

"  Bred  to  hunting  they  was,"  said  the  old  huntsman, 
who  loved  them,  and  has  now,  like  them,  crossed 
that  last  fence  of  all,  "  every  one  o'  them.  Better 
gentlemen  to  cross  a  country  I  never  see." 


CHAPTER    XXV 


As  had  been  the  case  with  "  The  Real  Charlotte," 
so  were  we  also  in  Paris  when  "  Some  Experiences 
of  an  Irish  R.M."— to  give  the  book  its  full  and 
cumbrous  title — was  published  by  Messrs.  Longman 
in  November,  1899. 

It  was  probably  better  for  us  both  that  we  should 
be  where,  beyond  the  voices,  there  was  peace,  but  it 
meant  that  most  of  the  fun  of  publishing  a  book  was 
lost  to  us.  The  thrill,  for  example,  of  buying  a  chance 
paper,  and  lighting  upon  a  review  in  it.  One  might 
buy  all  the  papers  in  Paris  without  a  moment  of 
anxiety. 

After  a  time,  however,  congested  envelopes  of 
"  press  cuttings,"  mostly  of  a  reassuring  character, 
began  to  arrive.  Press-cuttings,  received  en  groSy 
are  liable  to  induce  feelings  of  indigestion,  and  with 
their  economy  of  margin  and  general  suggestion  of 
the  waste-paper  basket,  their  tendency  is  to  crush  the 
romance  out  of  reviews  ;  but  Martin  and  I  found  them 
good  reading.  And  gradually,  letters  from  unknown 
readers  began  to  reach  us.  Pathetic  letters,  one  from 
"  an  Irish  Exile,"  thanking  us  for  "a  Whiff  of  Irish 
air,"  another  from  Australia,  proudly  claiming  posses- 
sion of  "  Five  drops  of  Irish  blood,"  and  offering  them 
as  an  excuse  for  "  troubling  us  with  thanks."    Serious 


^THE  IRISH  RMr  287 

inquiries,  beginning,  in  one  instance,  "  Dear  Sirs  or 
Ladies,  or  Sir  or  Lady," — as  to  whether  we  were  men 
or  women,  or  both.  A  friendly  writer,  in  America, 
informed  us  that  legend  was  already  "  crystalising 
all  over  us."  "  There  is  a  tradition  in  our  neighbour- 
hood that  you  are  ladies — also  that  you  live  at  Bally 
something — that  you  are  Art  Students  in  Paris — ^that 
you  are  Music  Students  in  Germany  .  .  .  but  my 
writing  is  not  to  inquire  into  your  identity — or  how 
you  collaborate  .  .  ,  acumulativedebtof  gratitude  fell 
due  ..."  The  writer  then  proceeded  to  congratulate 
us  on  "  having  accomplished  the  rare  feat  of  being 
absolutely  modern,  yet  bearing  no  date,"  and  ended  by 
saying  "  I  think  the  stories  will  be  as  good  in  ten  years 
or  fifty  (which  probably  interests  you  less)  as  they  are 
to-day."  A  kind  forecast,  that  still  remains  to  be 
verified.  The  same  writer,  who  was  herself  one  of 
the  trade,  went  on  to  say  that  she  "  knew  that  the 
Author  is  not  insulted  or  aggrieved  on  hearing  that 
perfect  strangers  are  eagerly  awaiting  the  next  book, 
or  re-reading  the  last  with  complete  enjoyment," 
and  this  chapter  may  be  taken  as  a  confirmation  of 
the  truth  of  what  she  said.  One  may  often  smile  at 
the  form  in  which,  sometimes,  the  approval  is  conveyed, 
but  I  welcome  this  opportunity  of  thanking  those 
wonderful  people,  who  have  taken  the  trouble  to 
write  to  Martin  and  me,  often  from  the  ends  of  the 
earth,  to  tell  us  that  our  writing  had  given  them 
pleasure ;  not  more,  I  think,  than  their  letters  have 
given  us,  so  we  can  cry  quits  over  the  transaction. 

We  have  been  told,  and  the  story  is  well  authenti- 
cated, of  a  young  lady  who  invariably  slept  with  two 
copies  of  the  book  (like  my  aunt  and  her  "  Somme- 
liers  "),  one  on  each  side  of  her,  so  that  on  whichever 
side  she  faced  on  waking,  she  could  find  instant  refresh- 
ment.    An  assurance  of  almost  excessive  appreciation 


288  IRISH  MEMORIES 

came  from  America,  informing  us  that  we  "  had 
Shakspere  huddled  into  a  corner,  screaming  for 
mercy."  We  were  told  of  a  lady  (of  the  bluest 
literary  blood)  who  had  classified  friends  from 
acquaintances  by  finding  out  if  they  had  read  and 
appreciated  "  The  Real  Charlotte  "  or  no,  and  who 
now  was  unable  to  conceive  how  she  had  ever  existed 
without  the  assistance  of  certain  quotations  from 
"  The  R.M."  Perhaps  one  of  the  most  pleasing  of  these 
tales  was  one  of  a  man  who  said  (to  a  faithful  hearer) 
"  First  I  read  it  at  full  speed,  because  I  couldn't 
stop,  and  then  I  read  it  very  slowly,  chewing  every 
word ;  and  then  I  read  it  a  third  time,  dwelling  on 
the  bits  I  like  best ;  and  then,  and  not  till  then,  thank 
Heaven  !  I  was  told  it  was  written  by  two  women  !  " 
An  old  hunting  man,  a  friend  and  contemporary  of 
Surtees  and  Delme  Radcliffe,  wrote  to  us  saying  that 
he  was  "  The  Evangelist  of  the  Irish  R.M.  It  is  the 
only  doctrine  that  I  preach  ...  It  is  ten  years 
since  I  dropped  upon  it  by  pure  accident,  and,  like 
Keats,  in  his  equally  immortal  sonnet — 

'  Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 
When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken,' 

I  am  so  deeply  grieved  that  you  cannot  hunt.  I 
can  sympathise.  It  is  sixty  years  since  I  began  hunt- 
ing, and  I  know  how  you  must  miss  it.  Now  you 
realise  the  truth  of  John  Jorrocks.  '  For  hunting  is 
like  the  air  we  breathe,  if  we  have  it  not,  we  die.' 
But  don't  do  that.      Ever  yours,  etc.  etc." 

We  have  had  many  letters  containing  inquiries  of 
a  sort  that  taxed  both  memory  and  invention  to  find 
replies  to  them.  Bewildering  demands  for  explana- 
tions, philological,  etymological,  zoological,  of  such 
statements  as  "  The  Divil  in  the  Wild  Woods  wouldn't 
content  him,"  or  Flurry  Knox's  refusal  to  "be  seen 


AT   BUNALUN.  "  GONE   TO   GROUND." 


WAUING    FO;<    rV.E    TEr-tRlKRS. 


*'THE  IRISH  R.M."  289 

dead  at  a  pig  fair  "  in  certain  articles  of  attire.  Why  a 
pig  fair  ?  Why  dead  ?  Why  everything  ?  Martin's 
elucidation  of  the  pig  fair  problem  appeared  in  the 
Spectator,  included  in  a  letter  from  the  inquirer, 
"  G.,"  and  is  as  follows  : 

"  I  have  never  given  a  necktie  to  a  male  friend,  or 
even  enemy  ;  but  a  necktie  was  once  given  to  me.  I 
showed  it  to  a  person  whose  opinion  on  such  matters 
I  revere.  He  said  at  once,  '  I  would  not  be  seen 
dead  in  it  at  a  pig-fair.'  The  matter  of  the  tie 
ended  there  ;  to  use  the  valuable  expression  of  the 
wife  of  the  male  friend,  (in  connection  with  a  toy 
that  might  possibly  prove  injurious  to  her  young,)  I 
'  gradually  threw  it  away.'  That  was  my  first  experi- 
ence of  the  pig-fair  trope,  and  I  have  never  ceased 
to  find  comfort  in  it,  nor  ever  questioned  its  complete- 
ness. I  am  aware  that  nothing,  presumably,  will 
matter  to  me  when  I  am  dead,  yet,  casting  my  mind 
forward,  I  do  not  wish  the  beholder  of  my  remains, 
casting  his  eye  backward,  to  be  scandalised  by  my 
taste  in  ties,  or  other  accompaniments,  while  I  was 
alive.  I  do  not  myself  greatly  care  about  being  alive 
at  a  pig-fair,  neither  is  it  an  advantage,  socially  or 
otherwise,  to  be  dead  there.  Yet  this  odium  might  be 
enhanced,  could  even  be  transcended,  in  the  eye  of 
the  beholder,  by  the  infamy  of  my  necktie.  To  this 
point  I  have  treated  the  beholder  as  a  person  able  to 
appreciate  the  discredit,  not  only  of  my  necktie, 
but  also  of  being  dead  at  a  pig-fair.  There  remains, 
however,  and  in  a  highly  intensive  manner,  the  pig- 
fair  itself.  We  trust  and  believe  the  pig- jobber  is 
critical  about  pigs  ;  but  we  do  not  expect  from  him 
fastidiousness  in  artistic  and  social  affairs.  He  will 
not,  we  hope,  realise  the  discredit  of  being  dead  at  a 
pig-fair,  but  there  can  be  neckties  at  which  he  will 
draw  the  line.    Considering,  therefore,  the  disapproba- 

u 


290  IRISH  MEMORIES 

tion  of  the  pig- jobber,  joined  to  that  of  the  other 
beholders,  and  finding  that  fore-knowledge  of  the 
callousness  of  death  could  not  allay  my  sense  of  these 
ignominies,  I  gradually  threw  away  the  necktie." 

I  trust  "  G."  will  permit  me  to  quote  also  the 
following  from  his  letter. 

"  As  reference  has  been  made  to  the  *  R.M.'  your 
readers  will  be  amused  to  hear  that  a  French  sportsman 
who  had  asked  the  name  of  a  good  sporting  novel,  and 
had  been  recommended  the  work  in  question,  said 
with  some  surprise,  '  But  I  did  not  think  such  things 
existed  in  Ireland.'  He  imagined  the  title  to  be 
*  Some  Reminiscences  of  an  Irish  Harem.'  " 

A  leading  place  among  the  communications  and 
appreciations  that  we  received  about  our  books  was 
taken  by  what  we  were  accustomed  to  call  Medical 
Testimonials.  The  number  of  quinzies  and  cases  of 
tonsilitis  that  Major  Yeates  has  cured,  violently,  it  is 
true,  but  effectually,  the  cases  of  prostration  after 
influenza,  in  which  we  were  assured  he  alone  had  power 
to  rouse  and  cheer  the  sufferer,  cannot  possibly  be 
enumerated.  We  have  sometimes  been  flattered 
into  the  hope  that  we  were  beginning  to  rival  the 
Ross  "  Fluit-player  "  of  whom  it  was  said,  "  A  man 
in  deep  concumption  From  death  he  would  revive." 

We  had  but  one  complaint,  and  that  was  from  a 
cousin,  who  said  it  had  reduced  her  to  "  Disabling 
laughter,"  which,  "  remembering  the  awful  warning, 

'  laugh,  and  grow  F 1 '  "  she  had  tried  her  utmost  to 

restrain. 

The  envelopes  of  press  cuttings  became  more  and 
more  congested  as  the  months  went  on,  and  the 
"  R.M."  continued  his  course  round  the  world  ;  and, 
thanks  to  his  being,  on  the  whole,  an  inoffensive 
person,  he  was  received  with  more  kindness  than  we 
had  ever  dared  to  hope  for.     There  were,  as  far  as  I 


'^THE  IRISH  R.M:'  291 

can  remember,  but  few  rose  leaves  with  crumples  in 
them,  and  even  they  had  their  compensations,  as,  I 
think,  the  following  sample  crumple  will  sufficiently 
indicate.  I  am  far  from  wishing  to  hold  this  pro- 
nouncement up  to  derision.  There  was  a  great  deal 
more  of  it  than  appears  here,  which,  unfortunately, 
I  have  not  space  to  quote.  We  found  many  of  its 
strictures  instructive  and  bracing,  and  the  suffering 
that  pulses  in  the  final  paragraph  bears  the  traces 
of  a  genuine  emotion. 

"  The  stories  were  originally  published  in  a 
magazine,  and  would  be  less  monotonous  and  painful, 
no  doubt,  if  read  separately,  and  in  small  doses  .  .  . 
The  picture  they  give  of  Irish  life  is  ...  so  depress- 
ingly  squalid  and  hopeless  .  .  .  The  food  is  appal- 
lingly bad,  and  the  cooking  and  service,  if  possible, 
worse.  No  one  in  the  book,  high  or  low,  does  a 
stroke  of  work,  unless  shady  horse-selling  and  keeping 
dirty  public  houses  can  be  said  to  be  doing  work.  .  .  . 
On  the  whole,  the  horses  and  hounds  are  far  more 
important  than  the  human  beings,  and  the  stables 
and  kennels  are  only  a  degree  less  dilapidated  and 
disgusting  than  the  houses.  Not  a  trace  of  romance, 
seriousness,  or  tenderness,  disturbs  the  uniform  tone 
of  the  book. 

"  Such  is  the  picture  of  our  country,  given,  I 
believe,  by  two  Irish  ladies.  One,  at  least,  is  Irish 
—Miss  Martin,  a  niece  of  the  Honourable  Mrs.  P. 
A  more  unfeminine  book  I  have  never  perused,  or 
one  more  devoid  of  any  sentiment  of  refinement,  for 
even  men  who  write  horsey  novels  preserve  some 
tinge  of  romance  in  their  feelings  towards  women 
which  these  ladies  are  devoid  of.  A  complete  hard- 
ness pervades  their  treatment  of  the  female  as  of  the 
male  characters." 

It  is  seventeen  years  since  we  first  perused  this 

u  2 


292  IRISH  MEMORIES 

melancholy  indictment.  Is  it  too  late  to  do  one  act 
of  justice  and  to  restore  to  the  reviewer  one  illusion  ? 
Martin  Ross  cannot  claim  the  relationship  assigned 
to  her ;  the  Honourable  Mrs.  P.  leaves  the  court 
without  a  stain  on  her  character. 

Among  the  best  and  most  faithful  of  the  friends  of 
the  R.M.,  we  make  bold  to  count  the  Army.  After 
the  South  African  War,  we  were  shown  a  letter  in 
which  a  Staff-officer  had  said  that  he  "  had  worn 
out  three  copies  of  the  *  Irish  R.M.'  during  the  War, 
but  it  had  preserved  for  him  his  reason,  which  would 
otherwise  have  been  lost."  Another  wrote  to  tell  us 
of  the  copy  of  the  book  that  had  been  found  in  General 
de  Wet's  tent,  on  one  of  the  many  occasions  when 
that  stout  campaigner  had  got  up  a  little  earlier  than 
had  been  expected.  Yet  a  third  officer,  no  less  than 
a  Director  of  Military  Intelligence,  said  that  a  statue 
should  be  erected  in  honour  of  the  **  R.M."  "For  ser- 
vices rendered  during  the  War."  And,  as  Mr.  Belloc 
has  sung,  "  Surely  the  Tartar  should  know  !  " 

Much  later  came  a  letter  from  Northern  Nigeria, 
telling  us  that  "  the  book  was  ripping,"  apologising 
for  "  frightful  cheek  "  in  writing,  ending  with  the 
statement  that  "  even  if  we  were  annoyed,"  the  writer 
was,  "  at  any  rate,  a  long  way  off  I  " 

In  very  truth  we  were  not  annoyed.  We  have  had 
letters  that  filled  us  with  an  almost  shamed  thank- 
fulness that  we  should  have  been  able,  with  such 
play-boys  as  Flurry  Knox,  and  "  Shpper,"  and  the 
rest,  to  give  what  seemed  to  be  a  real  lift  to  people 
who  needed  it ;  and,  since  1914,  it  is  not  easy  to 
express  what  happiness  it  has  brought  us  both  to 
hear,  as  we  have  often  heard,  that  the  various  volumes 
of  the  R.M.'s  adventures  had  done  their  share  in 
bringing  moments  of  laughter,  and,  perhaps,  of 
oblivion  for  a  while  to  their  surroundings,   to  the 


I 


*'THE  IRISH  R.M:'  308 

fighters  in  France  and  in  all  those  other  cruel  places, 
where  endurance  and  suffering  go  hand  in  hand,  and 
the  lads  lay  down  their  lives  with  a  laugh. 

Nothing,  I  believe,  ever  gave  Martin  more  pleasure 
than  that  passages  from  the  "  Irish  R.M."  should 
have  been  included  among  the  Broad  Sheets  that 
the  Times  sent  out  to  the  soldiers.  It  was  in  the  last 
summer  of  her  life,  little  as  we  thought  it,  that  this 
honour  was  paid  to  our  stories,  and  had  she  been  told 
how  brief  her  time  was  to  be,  and  been  asked  to 
choose  the  boon  that  she  would  like  best,  I  believe 
that  to  be  numbered  among  that  elect  company  of  con- 
solers was  what  she  would  most  gladly  have  chosen. 

A  little  book  was  sent  to  me,  not  long  ago,  which 
was  published  in  the  spring  of  this  year,  1917.  It 
gives  an  account,  worthy  in  its  courage  and  simplicity 
of  the  brilliant  and  gallant  young  life  that  it  com- 
memorates. In  it  is  told  how  Gilbert  Talbot,  of  the 
Rifle  Brigade,  "  began  the  plan  of  reading  aloud  in 
the  men's  rest  times,  and  we  heard  from  many  sources 
what  the  fun  was,  and  the  shouts  of  laughter,  from  his 
reading  aloud  of  *  Some  Experiences  of  an  Irish  R.M.' 
*  Philippa's  first  Foxhunt  *  was  a  special  success." 
And  in  his  last  entry  in  his  diary,  he  himself  tells  of 
having  "  read  one  of  the  old  R.M.  stories  aloud," 
and  that  it  was  "  a  roaring  success." 

Yet  one  other  story,  and  one  that  touches  the  fount 
of  tears.  It  was  written  to  me  by  one  who  knew  and 
loved  Martin ;  one  whose  husband  had  been  killed  in 
the  war,  and  who  wrote  of  her  eldest  son, 

"  I  want  to  tell  you    that    the    R.M.  helped  me 

through  what  would  have  been  D 's  twenty-first 

birthday  yesterday.  I  know  Violet  would  have  been 
glad." 

I  believe  that  she  knows  these  things,  and  I  am 
quite  sure  that  she  is  glad. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 


of  good  times 

In  a  Swiss  Valley. 

Silver  and  blue  the  hills,  and  blue  the  infinite  sky. 
And  silver  sweet  the  straying  sound  of  bells 
Among  the  pines  ;  their  tangled  music  tells 
Where  the  brown  cattle  wander.     From  on  high 
A  glacier  stream  leaps  earthward,  passionately, 
A  white  soul  flying  from  a  wizard's  spells. 
And  still  above  the  pines  one  snow-drift  dwells, 
Winter's  last  sentinel,  left  there  to  die. 
From  the  deep  valley,  while  the  waterfall 
Charms  memory  to  sleep,  I  see  the  snow 
Sink,  conquered,  on  the  pine  trees'  steady  spears. 
A  waft  of  flowers  comes  to  me.     Dearest,  all 
Our  happy  days  throng  back,  and  with  the  flow 
Of  that  wild  stream,  there  mingle  alien  tears. 


The  effort  of  writing  the  twelve  "  R.M."  stories 
against  time,  and  before  she  had  even  begun  to  recover 
from  the  effects  of  the  hunting  accident,  told  upon 
Martin  more  severely  than  we  could  either  of  us  have 
believed  possible.  For  the  following  four  years,  1900 
to  1903,  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  undertake  any 
work  that  would  demand  steady  application,  and  it 
was  out  of  the  question  to  bind  ourselves  to  any  date 
for  anything.  In  looking  over  our  records,  the  fact 
that  has  throughout  been  the  most  outstanding  is. 


OF  GOOD   TIMES  296 

how  seldom  she  was  quite  free  from  suffering  of  some 
kind  or  other.  For  a  creature  who  adored  activity 
of  any  kind,  and  whose  exquisite  lightness  of  poise  and 
perfectness  of  physical  equipment  predisposed  her  for 
any  form  of  sport,  her  crippling  short  sight  was  a  most 
cruel  handicap,  and  in  nothing  was  the  invincible 
courage,  patience,  and  sweetness  of  her  nature  so 
demonstrated  as  in  the  fortitude  with  which  she 
accepted  it. 

It  is  said  that  blind  people  develop  a  sixth  sense, 
and  it  was  a  truism  with  us  that  Martin  saw  and  knew 
more  of  any  happening,  at  any  entertainment,  than  any 
of  the  rest  of  us,  endowed  though  we  were  with  sight 
like  hawks,  but  unprovided  with  her  perception,  and 
concentration,  and  intuition.  There  have  been  times 
when  her  want  of  sight  supported  her,  as  when,  at  a 
very  big  Admiralty  House  Dinner  (no  matter  where), 
an  apple  pie  that  had  made  the  tour  of  the  table  in 
vain  was  handed  to  her.  Unaware  of  its  blighted 
past  she  partook,  and  slowly  disposed  of  it,  talking 
to  her  man  the  while.  It  was  not  until  she  was  going 
home  that  a  justly  scandalised  sister  was  able  to 
demand  an  explanation  as  to  why  she  had  brought  the 
table  to  a  standstill,  even  as  Joshua  held  up  the  sun 
at  Ajalon. 

But  more  often— far  more  often—it  has  betrayed  her. 
Once,  after  a  visit  at  a  country  house,  the  party,  a 
large  one,  stood  round  the  motor  in  farewell,  and  she, 
a  little  late  for  the  train,  as  was  her  custom,  motor- 
veiled,  and  deserted  by  her  eye-glasses,  hurriedly  shook 
hands  with  all  and  sundry,  and  ended  with  the  butler. 
She  could  never  remember  how  far  the  salutation 
had  been  carried,  or  the  point  at  which  her  eyes  were 
spiritually  opened.  It  was  a  searing  memory,  but 
she  said  she  thought  and  hoped  that,  as  with  the  Angel 
of  the  Darker  Drink,  she  did  not,  at  that  last  dread 


/ 

290  IRISH  MEMORIES 

moment,  shrink.  But,  she  added,  undoubtedly  the 
butler  did. 

No  one  was  ever  such  a  comrade  on  an  expedition, 
and  many  such  have  she  and  I  made  together.  Times 
of  the  best,  when  we  went  where  we  would,  and  did 
what  pleased  us  most,  and  had  what  I  hold  to  be, 
on  the  whole,  the  best  company  in  the  world,  that  of 
painting  people.  (Yet  I  admit  that  a  spice  of  other 
artists  adds  flavour.)  Even  during  those  years  of 
comparative  invalidism,  after  the  traitor  "  Dervish  " 
had  so  nearly  crushed  her  life  out  of  her,  Martin  never 
surrendered  to  the  allied  forces  of  malaise,  and  those 
attractions  of  idleness  and  comfort  which  may  be 
symbolised  in  "  The  Sofa." 

She  was  on  a  horse  again  before  many,  in  her  case, 
would  have  been  off  the  sofa,  and  when,  fighting 
through  phalanxes  of  friends  and  doctors,  she  went 
hunting  again,  her  nerve  was  what  it  ever  had  been, 
of  steel.  We  went  to  Achill  Island  in  one  of  those 
summers,  to  a  hotel  where  "  The  Sofa  "  was  practi- 
cally non-existent  (being  invariably  used  as  a  reserve 
bed  for  bagmen),  and  the  unpunctuality  of  the  meals 
might  possibly  have  been  intended  to  evoke  an  appe- 
tite that  would  ignore  their  atrocity.  In  this  it  failed, 
but  it  evoked  various  passages  in  "  Some  Irish  Yester- 
days," and  thus  may  be  credited  with  having  assisted 
us  to  get  better  dinners  elsewhere. 

We  went  to  London,  and  stayed  at  the  Bolton 
Studios,  that  strange,  elongated  habitation,  that  is 
like  nothing  so  much  as  a  corridor  train  in  a  nightmare. 
There,  one  night,  Martin  got  ill,  and  I  had  to  summon, 
post  haste,  the  nearest  doctor.  He  came,  and  was  an 
Irishman,  and  was  as  clever  as  Irish  doctors  often  are, 
and  as  unconventional.  He  is  dead  now,  so  I  may 
mention  that  when,  in  the  awful,  echoing  corridor, 
at  dead  of  night,  the  delicate  subject  of  his  fee  was 


OF  GOOD   TIMES  297 

broached,  we  discovered  that  there  was  an  unpro- 
curable sixpence  between  us. 

He  eyed  me  and  said, 

"  I'll  toss  ye  for  the  sixpence  !  " 

"  Done  !  "  called  Martin,  feebly,  from  within. 

The  doctor  and  I  tossed,  double  or  quits,  sudden 
death.  I  won.  And  there  came  a  faint  cock-crow 
from  the  inner  chamber. 

That  year  she  wrote  a  sketch  called  "  A  Patrick's 
Day  Hunt,"  and  I  drew  the  illustrations  for  it.  It 
was  published  as  a  large  coloured  picture-book,  by 
Constable  &  Co.,  and  was  very  well  reviewed.  The 
story  is  supposed  to  be  told  by  a  countryman  to  a 
friend,  and  is  a  remarkable  tour  de  forces  both  in  idiom 
and  in  realising  the  countryman  point  of  view.  We 
were  afraid  that  it  might  be  found  too  subtle  a  study 
of  dialect  for  the  non-Irish  reader,  so  we  were  the  more 
pleased  when  we  were  told  of  an  English  Quaker 
family,  living  in  the  very  heart  of  their  native  country, 
who,  every  day,  directly  after  prayers,  read  aloud  a 
portion  of  "  A  Patrick's  Day  Hunt." 

(In  this  connection  I  will  quote  a  fragment  of  a  letter 
which  bears  indirectly  on  the  same  point.) 

E.  (E.  S.  to  V.  F.  M.    (Spring,  1903.) 

" 1  have  also  heard  of  a  very  smart  lady,  going  to 

Ireland  for  the  first  time,  who  invested  in  an  R.M., 
saying,  *  I  have  bought  this  book.  I  want  to  see  how 
one  should  talk  to  the  Irish.' 

"  *  Blasht  your  Sowl ! '  replied  my  friend  Slipper. 

"  '  May  the  Divil  crack  the  two  legs  undher  ye  ! ' 
(See  any  page,  anywhere,  in  the  Irish  R.M.)" 

Another  effort  of  what  I  may  call  the  Sofa  period 
was  an  account  of  a  case  that  we  had  been  privileged  to 
see  and  hear  in  a  County  Galway  Petty  Sessions  Court. 


298  IRISH  MEMORIES 

We  called  it  "  An  Irish  Problem  "  ;  it  appeared  in  the 
National  Review,  and  is  now  reprinted  in  "  All  on  the 
Irish  Shore."  This  book,  which  is  a  collection  of 
short  stories  and  articles,  was  published  by  Longmans, 
Green  &  Co.  in  March,  1903.  The  stories,  etc.,  in 
it  had  all  appeared  in  various  serials,  and  one,  "  An 
Irish  Miracle,"  has  called  forth  many  letters  and  in- 
quiries. Even  during  the  present  year  of  1917  I  have 
had  a  letter  from  a  lady  in  Switzerland,  asking  for 
information  as  to  how  to  use  the  charm. 

In  a  letter  from  myself  to  Martin,  written  during 
a  visit  to  an  English  country  house,  I  have  come  upon 
a  reference  to  it.  "  They  have  been  reading  '  All  on 
the  Irish  Shore  '  here.  It  was  nobly  typical  of  Colonel 
D.  (an  old  friend)  to  read  '  An  Irish  Miracle '  in  silence, 
and  then  ask,  grimly,  how  much  of  it  was  true.  Nothing 
more.  There  is  wonderful  strength  of  character  in 
such  conduct— beyond  most  Irish  people.  It  is  all 
part  of  the  splendid  English  gift  of  not  caring  if  they 
are  agreeable  or  no.  Just  think  of  the  engaging 
anxiety  of  the  middle-class  Irishman  to  be  simpatica 
to  his  company  !  " 

I  may  here  state,  with  my  hand,  so  to  speak,  on  my 
heart,  that  there  is  a  charm,  an  actual  form  of  words 
which  may  be  divulged  only  by  "  a  her  to  a  him ;  or 
a  him  to  a  her^  It  is  of  the  highest  piety,  being  based 
on  the  teaching  of  the  Gospels,  and  should  be  used 
with  reverence  ^and  conviction.  I  have  heard  of  two 
occasions,  and  know  of  one,  on  which  it  took  effect. 
Unfortunately  it  cannot  be  used  in  healing  a  horse,  and 
whoever  does  so,  loses  henceforth  the  power  of  em- 
ploying it  successfully  ;  more  than  this  I  cannot  say. 
I  learnt  it  in  the  Co.  Meath,  and  those  who  would 
"  Know  my  Celia's  Charms,"  or  any  other  charms, 
from  "The  Cure  for  a  Worm  in  the  Heart,"  to  "A 
Remedy  for  the  Fallen  Palate,"  to  say  nothing  of  the 


OF  GOOD   TIMES  299 

Curing  of  Warts,  and  such  small  deer,  are  recommended 
to  prosecute  their  inquiries  in  the  Royal  County. 

In  October,  1902,  it  was  decreed  that  Martin  should 
try  what  a  rest  cure  would  do  for  her.  During  her 
incarceration,  and  in  the  spring  of  1903,  I  drew  and 
wrote  "  Slipper's  A.  B.  C.  of  Fox  Hunting,"  which 
materialised  as  a  large  picture-book  ;  it  was  published 
by  Messrs.  Longman,  and  I  dedicated  it,  in  a  financial 
as  well  as  a  literary  sense,  to  the  West  Carbery  Fox- 
hounds, of  which  pack,  in  the  same  spring,  I  became 
the  Master. 

It  was  while  we  were  at  Aix,  that  June,  that  we  dis- 
interred "  The  Irish  Cousin,"  and  prepared  it  for  a 
renewal  of  existence  under  the  auspices  of  Messrs. 
Longman.  Shuddering,  we  combed  out  youthful 
redundancies  and  intensities,  and  although  we  found 
it  impossible  to  deal  with  it  as  drastically  as  we  could 
have  wished,  having  neither  time  nor  inclination  to 
re-write  it,  we  gave  it  a  handling  that  scared  it  back 
to  London  as  purged  and  chastened  as  a  small  boy 
after  his  first  term  at  a  public  school.  During  these 
early  years  of  the  century,  my  sister  and  I,  with  a  solid 
backing  from  our  various  relations,  instituted  a  choral 
class  in  the  village  of  Castle  Townshend.  It  flourished 
for  several  years ;  we  discovered  no  phenomenal 
genius,  but  we  did  undoubtedly  find  a  great  deal  of 
genuine  musical  feeling.  It  is  worth  mentioning  that, 
in  our  experience,  the  gift  of  untrained  Irish  singers 
is  rhythm.  If  once  the  measure  were  caught,  and  the 
"beat"  of  the  stick  felt,  an  inherent  sense  of  time  kept 
the  choir  moving  with  the  precision  that  is  so  delightful 
a  feature  of  their  dancing  of  jigs  and  reels.  Some 
pleasant  voices  we  found,  and  it  was  noteworthy 
that  the  better  and  the  more  classical  the  music  that 
we  tried  to  teach,  the  more  popular  it  was.  Hardly 
any  of  them  could  read  music,  and  it  was  the  task  of 


800  IRISH  MEMORIES 

those  who  could  to  impart  the  alto,  tenor,  and  bass 
of  the  glees  to  the  class,  by  the  arduous  method  of 
singing  each  part  to  its  appropriate  victims  until 
exhaustion  intervened.  Once  learnt,  the  iron  memories 
of  our  people  held  the  notes  secure,  but  I  shall  not  soon 
forget  how  one  of  my  cousins  spent  herself  in  the  task 
of  teaching  to  a  new  member,  a  young  farm  labourer, 
a  tenor  part.  L.'s  own  voice  was  a  rich  and  mellow 
contralto,  and  the  remembrance  of  her  deep,  im- 
passioned warblings,  and  of  her  pupil's  random  and 
bewildered  bleatings,  is  with  me  still.  Musical  socie- 
ties in  small  communities  have  precarious  lives. 
Gradually  our  best  singers  left  us,  to  be  wasted  as 
sailors,  soldiers,  servants,  school  teachers,  and  I  only 
speak  of  the  society  now  in  order  to  justify  and  explain 
a  letter  of  Martin's  in  which  is  described  an  experience 
that  she  owed  to  it. 

V.  F.  M.  to  E.  (E.  S.  (Dublin,  October  (year  uncertain).) 

"  Miss  K.  ceaselessly  flits  from  Committee  to  Lecture 
and  from  Lecture  to  Convention,  and  would  hound 
me  to  all.  She  is  much  wrapped  up  in  the  Feis  Ceoil, 
of  which  a  meeting,  about  Village  Choral  Societies, 
was  held  in  the  Mansion  House  on  Friday.  She  begged 
me  to  go,  and  see  the  Lord  Mayor  preside,  and  hear 
much  useful  information,  so,  in  the  interests  of  the 
C.T.  Choral  Class  I  went.  It  was  five  o'clock  before 
I  approached,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  the  portals 
of  the  Mansion  House,  and  in  the  hall  I  could  see 
nothing  but  a  dirty  bicycle  and  a  little  boy  of  about 
ten,  who  murmured  that  I  was  to  write  my  name  in 
a  book,  which  I  did  with  a  greasy  pencil  from  his  own 
pocket.  He  told  me  that  I  was  to  go  to  the  stairs 
and  take  the  first  to  the  left.  I  did  so,  and  found 
myself  in  a  pitch  dark  drawing-room.     I  returned  to 


OF  GOOD   TIMES  801 

the  boy,  who  then  told  me  to  go  up  the  stairs  and  turn 
to  my  left. 

*'  I  climbed  two  flights,  of  homely  appearance,  and 
found  a  quite  dark  landing  at  the  top.  As  I  stood 
uncertain,  something  stirred  in  the  dark.  It  was 
very  low  and  dwarfish,  and  my  flesh  crept ;  it  said 
nothing,  but  moved  past,  no  higher  than  my  waist. 
It  seemed,  in  the  glimmer  that  came  from  the  foot  of 
the  stairs,  to  be  some  awful  little  thing  carrying  a  big 
bundle  on  its  back  or  head.  I  shall  never  know  more 
than  this. 

"  There  was  light  down  a  passage,  and  making  for 
it  I  came  to  a  room  with  little  and  big  beds  jammed 
up  side  by  side,  obviously  a  nursery.  There  was  also 
a  nurse.  I  murmured  apologies  and  fled.  The  nurse, 
if  it  were  indeed  a  nurse  and  not  an  illusion,  took  not 
the  faintest  notice.  After  various  excursions  round 
the  dark  landing,  during  which  the  conviction  grew 
upon  me  that  I  was  in  a  dream,  I  went  back  to 
the  nursery  passage  and  there  met  a  good  little 
slut-tweenie,  without  cap  or  apron,  who  took  me 
downstairs  and  put  me  right  for  the  meeting,  which 
I  entered  in  a  state  bordering  on  hysterics.  That  died 
away  very  soon  under  the  influence  of  a  very  long 
speech  about  the  hire  of  pianos.  Very  practical,  but 
deadly.  The  room  was  interesting,  panelled  with 
portraits  around,  and  the  audience  was  scanty.  .  .  . 
On  the  whole  I  think  the  information  I  obtained  is 
entirely  useless  to  you,  but  the  mysterious  life  into 
which  I  stumbled  was  interesting,  and  had  a  pleasing 
Behind  the  Looking  Glass  bewilderment  in  it.  .  .  . 
This  morning  I  had  a  tooth  out  under  gas.  I  am  quite 
sure  that  all  gassings  and  chloroformings  are  deeply 
uncanny.  One  dies,  one  goes  off  into  dreadful  vastness 
with  one's  astral  body.  That  was  the  feeling.  A 
poor  little  clinging  me,  that  first  clung  to  the  human 


302  IRISH  MEMORIES 

body  that  had  decoyed  it  into  B 's  chair,   was 

cast  loose  from  that,  and  then  hung  desperately  on 
to  an  astral  creature  that  was  wandering  in  nightmare 
fastnesses, — (even  as  I  wandered  in  the  Mansion  House) 
— quite  separate — then  that  was  lost,  and  that  despair- 
ing ME  said  to  itself  quite  plainly,  '  I  am  forsaken — 
I  have  lost  grip — I  don't  know  how  I  am  behaving — 
I  must  just  endure.'  Long  afterwards  came  an 
effect  as  of  the  gold  shower  of  a  firework  breaking 
silently  over  my  head.    Then  appeared  a  radiant  head 

in  a  fog— B 's.    Delightful  relaxation  of  awful  effort 

at  self-control,  and  sudden  realisation  that  the  brute 
was  out.      Then  the  usual  restoration  to  the  world, 

tipped  B ,  put  on  my  hat,  and  so  home.      I  am 

sure  these  visions  happen  when  one  dies,  and  I  am 
convinced  of  the  existence  of  an  innermost  self,  who 
just  sits  and  holds  on  to  the  other  two." 

There  came  a  spring  when  influenza  fell  upon  Martin 
in  London  and  could  not  be  persuaded  to  release  its 
grip  of  her  throat.  It  was  the  second  season  after  I 
took  the  hounds,  and  I  was  at  home  when,  in  the 
middle  of  March,  Martin's  doctor  commanded  her  to 
lose  no  time  in  getting  as  far  South  as  was  convenient. 
I  handed  over  the  hounds  to  my  brother  Aylmer, 
and  started  for  London  at  a  moment's  notice,  with 
an  empty  mind  and  a  Continental  Bradshaw. 
In  the  train  I  endeavoured  to  fill  the  former  with 
the  latter,  and,  beginning  with  France,  its  towns  and 
watering  places,  the  third  name  on  the  list  was  Amelie- 
les-Bains.  "  Warm  sulphur  springs,  which  are  success- 
fully used  in  affections  of  the  lungs.  Known  to  the 
Romans.  Thriving  town,  finely  placed  at  the  con- 
fluence of  the  rivers  Tech  and  Mondony,  at  the  foot 
of  Fort-les-Bains.  Owing  to  mildness  of  climate 
Baths  open  all  the  year.    Living  comparatively  cheap." 


OF  GOOD   TIMES  808 

The  description  was  restrained  but  seductive,  and  I 
brooded  over  it  all  the  way  to  Dublin. 

It  happened  that  one  of  the  nice  women,  who  are 
occasionally  to  be  met  with  in  trains,  shared  a  carriage 
with  me  from  Holyhead.  To  her  I  irrepressibly  spoke 
of  Am61ie-les-Bains.  It  may  or  may  not  be  believed 
that  she  had,  only  the  previous  day,  studied  with,  she 
said,  the  utmost  interest  and  admiration,  a  collection 
of  photographs  of  Am61ie,  taken  by  a  brother,  or  a 
sister,  who  had  spent  the  time  of  their  lives  there. 
(I  now  believe  that  the  nice  woman  was  herself  the 
human  embodiment  of  Am61ie.)  I  went  next  day 
to  Cook's  ;  they  had  never  heard  of  Am^lie.  No  one 
had  ever  heard  of  it,  but  I  clung  to  Bradshaw  and 
my  nice  woman,  and  in  three  days  we  started,  in 
faith,  for  Am^lie,  Martin  with  bronchitis  and  a 
temperature,  and  I  with  tickets  that  could  not  be 
prevailed  on  to  take  us  farther  than  Toulouse,  and 
with  more  dubiety  than  I  admitted.  As  I  have, 
since  then,  met  but  one  person  who  had  ever  heard 
of  Am61ie,  it  may  not  be  considered  officious  if  I 
mention  that  it  is  in  South-Eastern  France,  Depart- 
ment Pyrenees  Orientales,  and  that  the  Pyrenees 
stand  round  about  it  as  the  hills  stand  round  about 
Jerusalem,  and  that  "  the  confluence  of  the  rivers 
Tech  and  Mondony  "  was  all  and  more  than  Brad- 
shaw had  promised. 

Martin  and  I  have  wandered  through  many  byways 
of  the  world,  and  have  loved  most  of  them,  but  I 
think  Amelie  comes  first  in  our  affections.  It  is 
thirteen  years,  now,  since  we  stayed  at  "  Les  Thermes 
Remains  "  Hotel.  We  went  there  because  we  liked 
the  name  ;  we  stayed  there  for  six  delightful  weeks, 
from  the  middle  of  March  to  the  beginning  of  May, 
and  irrational  impulse  was  justified  of  her  children. 


804  IRISH  MEMORIES 

One  feature  "  Les  Thermes  Romains  "  possessed  that 
I  have  never  seen  reduplicated.  It  was  heated 
throughout  by  the  Central  Fires  of  Nature.  From  the 
heart  of  the  mountains  came  the  hot  sulphurous 
streams  that  gurgled  in  the  pipes  in  the  passages, 
and  filled  hot  water  jugs,  and  hot  water  bottles,  and 
regenerated  the  latter,  if  of  indiarubber,  restoring 
to  them  their  infant  purity  of  complexion  in  a  way 
that  gave  us  great  hope  for  ourselves.  Hannibal  had 
passed  through  Am61ie.  He  had  built  roads,  and 
dammed  the  river,  and  given  his  name  to  the  Grotte 
d'Annibale.  After  him  the  Romans  had  come,  and  had 
made  the  marble  baths  in  which  we  also  tried,  not 
unsuccessfully,  to  wash  away  our  infirmities,  and  after 
them  the  Moors  had  been  there,  and  had  built 
mysterious,  windowless  villages  of  pale  stone,  that 
hung  in  clusters,  like  wasps*  nests,  on  the  sides  of 
the  hills,  and  had  left  some  strain  of  darkness  and 
fineness  in  the  people,  as  well  as  a  superfluity  of  X's 
in  the  names  of  the  places. 

While  we  were  at  Les  Thermes,  two  little  English- 
men strayed  in,  accidentally,  but  all  the  other  guests 
were  French.  Among  them  was  an  old  gentleman 
who  had  been  in  his  youth  a  protegS  of  Georges  Sand. 
He  sat  beside  Martin,  and  joined  with  Isidore,  the 
old  head- waiter,  in  seeing  that  she  ate  and  drank  of  the 
best  and  the  most  typical  "  du  pays."  "  Cest  du 
paysy  Mademoiselle ! "  Isidore  would  murmur, 
depositing  a  preserved  orange,  like  a  harvest  moon 
in  syrup,  upon  her  plate ;  while  Monsieur  P.  would 
select  the  fattest  of  the  oHves  and  tenderest  of  the 
artichokes  for  '^  Mees  Violette''  Monsieur  P.  was 
ten  years  in  advance  of  his  nation  in  liking  and 
believing  in  English  people.  He  told  us  that  Georges 
Sand  was  the  best  woman  in  the  world,  the  kindest, 
the  cleverest,  the  most  charming;    he  loved   dogs; 


OF  GOOD   TIMES  805 

"  Ah,  Us  sont  meilleurs  que  nous !  "  he  said,  with 
conviction,  but  he  excepted  Georges  Sand  and  Mees 
Violette. 

While  we  were  at  Amehe,  we  wrote  the  beginning 
of  "  Dan  Russel  the  Fox,"  sitting  out  on  the  mountain 
side,  amidst  the  marvellous  heaths,  and  spurges,  and 
flowers  unknown  to  us,  while  the  rivers  Tech  and 
Mondony  stormed  "  in  confluence "  in  the  valley 
below  us,  and  the  pink  mist  of  almond  blossom  was 
everywhere.  Dan  Russel  progressed  no  farther  than 
a  couple  of  chapters  and  then  retired  to  the  shelf, 
where  he  remained  until  the  spring  of  1909  found  us  at 
Portofino  with  my  sister  and  a  friend,  Miss  Nora  Tracey . 
We  worked  there  in  the  olive  woods,  in  the  delicious 
spring  of  North  Italy,  and  although  it  was  finished 
at  home,  it  was  Portofino  that  inspired  the  setting  of 
the  final  chapter.  It  further  inspired  us  with  a  senti- 
ment towards  the  German  nation  that  has  been  most 
helpful  during  the  present  war,  and  has  enabled  us  to 
accept  any  tale  of  barbarism  with  entire  confidence. 

Northern  Italy  was  as  much  in  the  hands  of  the 
Huns  then  as  at  any  time  since  the  days  of  Attila. 
Even  had  their  table  manners  been  other  than  what 
they  were,  Siegfried  Wagner,  striding  slowly  and 
splendidly  on  the  Santa  Margherita  Road,  in  a  grey 
knickerbocker  suit  and  pale  blue  stockings,  or  Gerhardt 
Hauptmann,  the  dramatist,  with  his  aggressively 
intellectual  and  bright  pink  brow  bared  to  the  breeze, 
posing  on  the  sea  front,  each  attended  by  a  little 
rabble  of  squaws,  would  have  inspired  a  distaste 
vast  enough  to  have  included  their  entire  nation. 
One  incident  of  our  stay  at  Portofino  may  be  recounted. 
An  old  Russian  Prince  had  come  to  the  hotel,  a  small, 
grey  old  man,  feeble  and  fragile, in  charge  of  a  daughter. 
Gradually  a  rumour  grew  that  he  had  been  a  great 
musician.     There   was   a   pertinacious   fiddle-playing 

X 


806  IRISH  MEMORIES 

little  German  doctor,  whose  singular  name  was  Willy 
Rahab,  in  the  hotel ;  he  had  the  art  of  getting  what 
he  wanted,  and  one  evening,  having  played  Mozart 
with  my  sister  for  as  long  as  he  desired  to  do  so,  he 
concentrated  upon  the  old  Prince.  There  was  a  long 
resistance,  but  at  last  the  old  Russian  walked  feebly 
to  the  piano,  and  seated  himself  on  so  low  a  stool 
that  his  wrists  were  below  the  level  of  the  keyboard. 
I  saw  his  fingers,  grey  and  puffy,  and  rheumatic, 
settle  with  an  effort  on  the  keys.  He  looked  like 
an  ash-heap  ready  to  crumble  into  dust.  I  said 
to  myself  that  it  was  a  brutality.  And,  as  I  said 
it,  the  ash-heap  burst  into  flames,  and  Liszt's  arrange- 
ment of  "  Die  Walkiirenritt "  suddenly  crashed,  and 
stormed  and  swept.  There  was  some  element  of 
excitement  communicated  by  his  playing  that  I  have 
never  known  before  or  since,  and  we  shook  in  it  and 
were  lost  in  it,  as  one  shakes  in  a  winter  gale,  standing 
on  western  cliffs  with  the  wind  and  the  spray  in  one's 
face.  Then,  when  it  was  all  over,  the  old  ash-heap, 
greyer  than  ever,  waited  for  no  plaudits,  resigned  him- 
self to  his  daughter,  and  was  hustled  off  to  bed.  As 
for  the  hotel  piano,  till  that  moment  poor  but  upright, 
after  that  wild  ride  it  remained  prostrate,  and  could 
in  future  only  whisper  an  accompaniment  to  Doctor 
"  Veely's  "  violin.  It  transpired  that  the  Russian 
had  been  the  personal  friend  of  Wagner,  of  Schumann, 
and  of  Liszt,  in  the  brave  days  of  old  at  Leipsic,  and 
was  one  of  the  few  remaining  repositories  of  the  grand 
tradition. 

We  were  at  Montreuil,  a  small  and  very  ancient 
town,  not  far  from  Boulogne,  when  "  Some  Further 
Experiences  of  an  Irish  R.M."  was  published.  These 
had  appeared  in  the  Strand  and  other  magazines,  and 
had  gradually  accumulated  until  a  volume  became 
possible.     We  had  had  an  offer  from  an  Irish  journal. 


OF  GOOD  TIMES  807 

then,  and,  I  think,  still,  unknown  to  fame,  which  was, 
in  its  way,  gratifying.  The  editor  offered  "  to  con- 
sider a  story  "  if  we  would  "  write  one  about  better 
society  than  the  people  in  the  Experiences  of  an  Irish 
Policeman."  We  were  unable  to  meet  this  request. 
For  one  thing,  we  were  unable  to  imagine  better  or 
more  agreeable  society  than  is  the  portion  of  an  Irish 
Policeman.  Our  only  regret  was  that  the  many  social 
advantages  of  the  R.I.C.  were  not  more  abundantly 
within  our  reach. 

Montreuil  was  "  a  place  of  ancient  peace,"  of  placid, 
unmolested  painting  in  its  enchanting  by-streets 
(where  all  the  children,  unlike  those  of  jfitaples,  had 
been  confirmed  in  infancy),  of  evenings  of  classical 
music,  provided  delightfully  at  the  studios  of  two  of 
our  friends,  who  were  themselves  musicians,  and  were 
so  happy  as  to  have  among  their  friends  a  violinist, 
a  pianist,  and  a  singer,  all  of  high  honour  in  their 
profession.  Few  things  have  Martin  and  I  more 
enjoyed  than  those  evenings  in  the  high,  dim-lighted 
studio,  with  a  misty,  scented  atmosphere  of  flowers 
and  coffee  and  cigarettes,  and  with  the  satiating 
beauty  of  a  Brahms  violin  sonata  pouring  in  a  flood 
over  us. 

It  is  a  temptation  to  me  to  dwell  on  these  past 
summers,  but  I  will  speak  of  but  one  more,  of  the  time 
we  spent  on  the  Lac  d'Anne9y.  We  stayed  for  a  while 
in  the  town  of  Anne^y,  whose  canals,  exquisite  as  they 
are  for  painting,  are  compounded  of  the  hundred  in- 
gredients for  which  Cologne  is  famous.  From  Anne9y 
we  moved  across  the  lake  to  Chavoire,  whence  the 
artist  can  look  across  the  water  back  to  Anne9y's 
spires  and  towers,  and  can  try  to  decide  if  they  are 
more  beautiful  in  the  white  mists  of  morning  or  when 
the  sun  is  sinking  behind  them. 

That  was  in  September,  1911,  and  when  we  got  back 

X  2 


808  IRISH  MEMORIES 

to  London,  "  Dan  Russel  "  was  on  the  eve  of  coming 
out.  An  industrious  niece  of  mine,  aged  some  four 
and  a  half  years,  toiled  for  many  months  at  a  woolwork 
waistcoat,  a  Christmas  present  for  her  father.  It  was 
finished,  not  without  strain,  in  time  for  the  festival, 
and  Katharine  said,  flinging  herself  into  a  chair,  with 
a  flourish  of  the  long  and  stockingless  legs  with  which 
children  are  afflicted,  even  at  Christmas  time, 

"  Now  I'm  going  to  read  books,  and  never  do  another 
stitch  of  work  till  I  die  !  " 

So  did  Martin  and  I  assure  each  other,  though 
without  the  gesture  that  gave  such  effective  emphasis 
to  Katharine's  determination. 

We  stayed  luxuriously  at  our  club,  and  had  reviews 
of  "  Dan  Russel,"  hot  from  the  press,  for  breakfast, 
and  I  enjoyed  myself  enormously  at  the  Zoo,  making 
sketches  of  elephants  and  tigers  and  monkeys  for  a 
picture-book  that  I  projected  in  honour  of  the  Katha- 
rine above  mentioned. 

Passing  pleasant  it  all  was ;  alas  !  that  the  pleasure 
is  now  no  longer  passing,  but  past. 


WEST   CARBERY   HOUNDS  AT    LISS   ARD. 


PORTOFINO. 


CHAPTER   XXVII 

VARIOUS    OPINIONS 

While  I  have  been  writing  this  book  the  difficulty 
of  deciding  between  the  things  that  interested  Martin 
and  me,  and  those  that  might  presumably  interest 
other  people,  has  been  ever  before  me.  In  the  path 
of  this  chapter  there  is  another  and  still  more  formid- 
able lion,  accompanied — as  a  schoolchild  said — ^by 
"  his  even  fiercer  wife,  the  Tiger."  By  which  I 
wish  to  indicate  Irish  politics,  and  Woman's  Suffrage. 
I  will  take  the  Tiger  first,  and  will  dispose  of  it  as 
briefly  as  may  be. 

Martin  and  I,  like  our  mothers  before  us, 
were,  are,  and  always  will  be.  Suffragists,  whole- 
hearted, unshakable,  and  the  longer  we  have  lived 
the  more  unalterable  have  been  our  convictions. 
Some  years  ago  we  were  honoured  by  being 
asked  to  join  the  Women's  Council  of  the  Con- 
servative and  Unionist  Women's  Franchise  Associa- 
tion ;  she  was  a  Vice  -  President  of  the  Munster 
Women's  Franchise  League,  and  I  have  the  honour  of 
being  its  President.  Since  speech-making,  even  in 
its  least  ceremonial  and  most  confidential  form,  was 
to  her,  and  is  to  me,  no  less  appalling  than  would  be 
"  forcible  feeding,"  we  can  at  least  claim  that  our 
constitutional  wing  of  the  Movement  has  not  been 
without  its  martyrs.  The  last  piece  of  writing  together 
that  Martin  and  I  undertook  was  a  pamphlet,  written 
at  the  request  of  the  C.U.W.F.A.,  entitled  "  With 


810  IRISH  MEMORIES 

Thanks  for  Kind  Enquiries."  It  set  forth  to  the  best 
of  our  power  the  splendid  activities  of  the  various 
suffrage  societies  after  the  Great  War  broke  out,  and 
it  pleases  me  to  think  that  our  work  together  was 
closed  and  sealed  with  this  expression  of  the  faith 
that  was  and  is  in  us. 

This  conscientiously  and  considerately  condensed 
statement  will,  I  trust,  sufficiently  dispose  of  the 
Tiger.  But  who  could  hope  in  half  a  dozen  lines, 
or  in  as  many  volumes,  to  state  their  views  about 
Ireland  ?  No  one,  I  fear,  save  one  of  those  intrepid 
beings,  wondrous  in  their  self-confidence  (not  to  say 
presumption),  who  lightly  come  to  Ireland  for  three 
weeks,  with  what  they  call  "  an  open  mind,"  which 
is  an  endowment  that  might  be  more  accurately 
described  as  an  open  mouth,  and  an  indiscriminate 
swallow.  Some  such  have  come  our  way,  occasion- 
ally, English  people  whose  honesty  and  innocence 
would  be  endearing,  if  they  were  a  little  less  overlaid 
by  condescension.  It  may  be  enlightening  if  I  mention 
one  such,  who  told  us  that  he  had  had  "  such  a  nice 
car-driver."  "  He  opened  his  whole  heart  to  me," 
said  the  guileless  explorer ;  "he  told  me  that  he  and 
his  wife  and  children  had  practically  nothing  to  live 
on  but  the  tips  he  got  from  the  people  he  drove 
about !  " 

It  was  unfortunate  that  I  had  seen  this  heart- 
opening  and  heart-rending  car-driver,  and  chanced 
to  be  aware  that  he  was  unmarried  and  in  steady 
employment. 

In  my  experience,  Irish  people,  of  all  classes,  are, 
as  a  rule,  immaculately  honest  and  honourable  where 
money  is  concerned.  I  have  often  been  struck  by 
the  sanctity  with  which  money  is  regarded,  by  which 
I  mean  the  money  of  an  employer.  It  is  a  striking 
and  entirely  characteristic  feature,  and  is  in  no  class 


VARIOUS  OPINIONS  311 

more  invariable  than  in  the  poorest.  But,  to  return 
to  the  ear-driver,  when  a  large,  kind  fish  opens  his 
mouth  to  receive  a  fly,  and  one  sees  within  it  a  waiting 
coin,  it  is  hardly  to  be  expected  that  St.  Peter's 
example  will  not  be  followed. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  Irish  man  or  woman  does 
not  open  his  or  her  "  whole  heart "  to  strangers. 
Hardly  do  we  open  them  to  each  other.  We  are, 
unlike  the  English,  a  silent  people  about  the  things 
that  affect  us  most  deeply  ;  which  is,  perhaps,  the 
reason  that  we  are,  on  the  whole,  considered  to  be 
good  company.  It  is  in  keeping  with  the  contra- 
dictiousness  of  Ireland  that  the  most  inherently 
romantic  race  in  the  British  Isles  is  the  least  senti- 
mental, the  most  conversational  people,  the  most 
reserved,  and  also  that  Irish  people,  without  distinc- 
tion of  sex  or  class,  are  pessimists  about  their  future 
and  that  of  their  country.  Light-hearted,  humorous, 
cheerful  on  the  whole,  and  quite  confident  that  nothing 
will  ever  succeed. 

Personally,  I  have  a  belief,  unreasoning  perhaps, 
but  invincible,  in  the  future  of  Ireland,  which  is  not 
founded  on  a  three  weeks'  study  of  her  potentialities. 
No  one  can  "  run  a  place,"  or  work  a  farm,  or  keep 
a  pack  of  hounds,  without  learning  something  of  those 
who  are  necessary  to  either  of  these  processes.  I 
have  done  these  things  for  a  good  many  years ;  the 
place  may  have  walked  more  often  than  it  ran,  and 
the  farm  manager  may  have  made  more  mistakes 
than  money,  and  the  M.F.H.  probably  owes  it  to  her 
sex  that  she  was  spared  some  of  the  drawbacks  that 
attend  her  office  ;  but  she  has  learnt  some  things  in 
the  course  of  the  years,  and  one  of  them  is  that  in 
sympathetic  and  intelligent  service  a  good  Irish 
servant  has  no  equal,  and  another,  that  if  you  give  an 
Irishman  your  trust  he  will  very  seldom  betray  it. 


812  imSH  MEMORIES 

Not  often  does  the  personal  appeal  fail.  Not  in  the 
country  I  know  best,  at  any  rate,  nor  in  Martin's. 
I  have  heard  of  a  case  in  point.  A  property,  it  matters 
not  where,  west  or  south,  was  being  sold  to  the  tenants, 
"  under  the  Act,"  i.e.  Mr.  Gerald  Balfour's  Land 
Purchase  Act,  that  instrument  of  conciliation  that  has 
emulated  the  millennium  in  protecting  the  cockatrice 
from  the  weaned  child,  and  has  brought  peace  and 
ensued  it.  I  remember  the  regret  with  which  a  woman 
said  that  she  "  heard  that  Mr.  Balfour  was  giving  up 
his  reins  "  ;  a  phrase  that  has  something  of  almost 
Scriptural  self-abnegation  about  it.  On  this  property, 
all  had  been  happily  settled  between  landlord  and 
tenants,  when  a  sudden  hitch  developed  itself;  a 
hitch  essentially  Irish,  in  that  it  was  based  upon 
pride,  and  was  nourished  by  and  rooted  in  a  family 
feud.  A  small  hill  of  rock,  with  occasional  thin  smears 
of  grass,  divided  two  of  the  farms.  It  was  rated  at 
9d.  a  year.  Each  of  the  adjoining  tenants  claimed  it 
as  appertaining  to  his  holding.  The  wife  of  one  had 
always  fed  geese  on  it,  the  mother  of  the  other  was 
in  the  habit  of  "  throwing  tubs  o'  clothes  on  it  to 
blaych."  A  partition  was  suggested  by  the  agent,  and 
was  rejected  with  equal  contempt  by  James  on  the 
one  hand,  and  Jeremiah  on  the  other.  The  priest 
attempted  arbitration ;  an  impartial  neighbour  did 
the  same  ;  finally  the  landlord,  home  on  short  leave 
from  his  ship,  joined  with  the  other  conciliators,  and 
a  step  or  two  towards  a  settlement  was  taken,  but 
there  remained  about  fifty  yards  of  rock  that  neither 
combatant  would  yield.  The  sale  of  the  estate  was 
arrested,  the  consequent  abatement  of  all  rents  could 
not  come  into  operation,  and  for  their  oaths'  sake, 
and  the  fractional  value  of  fourpence-halfpenny, 
James  and  Jeremiah  continued  to  sulk  in  their 
tents.      At    this    juncture,    and    for  the    first   time. 


VARIOUS  OPINIONS  818 

the  landlord's  sister,  who  may,  non-committally,  be 
called  Lady  Mary,  seems  to  have  come  into  the 
story.  She  interviewed  James,  and  she  held  what 
is  known  as  "  a  heart-to-heart "  with  Jeremiah.  She 
even  brought  the  latter  to  the  point  of  conceding 
twenty  yards  ;  the  former  had  already  as  good  as 
promised  that  he  would  yield  fifteen.  There  remained 
therefore  fifteen  yards,  an  irreducible  minimum.  Lady 
Mary,  however,  remained  calm.  She  placed  a  com- 
batant each  on  his  ultimate  point  of  concession. 
Then,  in,  so  she  has  told  me,  an  awful  silence,  she 
paced  the  fifteen  yards.  At  seven  yards  and  a  care- 
fully measured  half,  she,  not  without  difficulty,  drove 
her  walking-stick  into  a  crevice  of  the  rock.  Still  in 
silence,  and  narrowly  observed  by  the  disputants,  she 
collected  a  few  stones,  and,  like  a  Hebrew  patriarch, 
she  built,  round  the  walking-stick,  a  small  altar. 
Then  she  stood  erect,  and  looking  solemnly  upon 
James  and  Jeremiah, 

"  Now  men,"  she  said,  "  In  the  name  of  God,  let 
this  be  the  bounds." 

And  it  was  so. 

What  is  more,  a  few  Sundays  later,  one  of  the 
twain,  narrating  the  incident  after  Mass,  said  with 
satisfaction, 

"  It  failed  the  agent,  and  it  failed  the  landlord, 
and  it  failed  the  priest ;   but  Lady  Mary  settled  it !  " 

As  a  huntsman  I  knew  used  to  say  (relative  to 
puppy- walking),  "  It's  all  a  matter  o'  taact.  I  never 
see  the  cook  yet  I  couldn't  get  over !  " 

A  cousin  of  my  mother's,  whose  name,  were  I  to 
disclose  it,  would  be  quickly  recognised  as  that  of  a 
distinguished  member  of  a  former  Conservative  ad- 
ministration, and  an  orator  in  whom  the  fires  of 
Bushe  and  Plunket  had  flamed  anew,  once  told  me 
that  he  had   occasion  to  consult  Disraeli  on  some 


314  IRISH  MEMORIES 

matter  in  connection  with  Ireland.  He  found  him 
lying  ill,  on  a  sofa,  clad  in  a  gorgeous,  flowered  dressing- 
gown,  and  with  a  scarlet  fez  on  his  ringlets. 

"  Ah,  Ireland,  my  dear  fellow,*'  he  said,  languidly, 
"  that  damnable  delightful  country,  where  everything 
that  is  right  is  the  opposite  of  what  it  ought  to  be  !  " 

There  was  never  a  truer  word ;  Ireland  is  a  law 
unto  herself  and  cannot  be  dogmatised  about.  Of 
the  older  Ireland,  at  least,  it  can  be  said  that  an 
appeal  to  generosity  or  to  courtesy  did  not  often  fail. 
Of  the  newer  Ireland  I  am  less  certain.  I  remember 
knocking  up  an  old  postmaster,  after  hours,  on  a 
Sunday,  and  asking  for  stamps,  abjectly,  and  with 
the  apologies  that  were  due. 

"  Ah  then  I  "  said  the  postmaster,  with  a  decent 
warmth  of  indignation  that  it  should  be  thought  he 
exacted  apologies  in  the  matter ;  "  It  'd  be  the  funny 
Sunday  that  I'd  refuse  stamps  to  a  lady  !  " 

My  other  instance,  of  the  newer  Ireland,  is  also  of  a 
post-office,  this  time  in  a  small  town  that  prides  itself 
on  its  republican  principles.  A  child  deposited  a 
penny  upon  the  counter,  and  said  to  the  lady  in 
charge,  "  A  pinny  stamp,  please." 

"  Say-Miss-ye-brat !  "  replied  the  lady  in  charge, 
in  a  single  sabre-cut  of  Saxon  speech. 

«  >|c  *  >|c  « 

Martin  had  ever  been  theoretically  opposed  to 
Home  Rule  for  Ireland,  and  was  wont  to  combat 
argument  in  its  favour  with  the  forebodings  which 
may  be  read  in  the  following  letters.  They  were 
written  to  her  friend,  Captain  Stephen  Gwynn,  in 
response  to  some  very  interesting  letters  from  him 
(which,  with  hers  to  him,  he  has  most  kindly  allowed 
me  to  print  here).  Her  love  of  Ireland,  combined 
with  her  distrust  of  some  of  those  newer  influences 
in  Irish  affairs  to  which  her  letters  refer,  made  her 


VARIOUS   OPINIONS  315 

dread  any  weakening  of  the  links  that  bind  the 
United  Kingdom  into  one,  but  I  believe  that  if  she 
were  here  now,  and  saw  the  changes  that  the  past 
eighteen  months  have  brought  to  Ireland,  she  would 
be  quick  to  welcome  the  hope  that  Irish  politics 
are  lifting  at  last  out  of  the  controversial  rut  of 
centuries,  and  that  although  it  has  been  said  of 
East  and  West  that  "  never  the  two  shall  meet," 
North  and  South  will  yet  prove  that  in  Ireland  it 
is  always  the  impossible  that  happens. 

V.  F.  M.  to  Captain  Stephen  Gwynn,  M.P. 
"  Drishane  House, 

"  Skibbeeeen. 

''Feb.  1,  1912. 

"  .  .  .  .  The  day  after  was  here  I  rode  on  a 

large  horse,  of  mild  and  reflective  habit,  away  over  a 
high  hill,  where  farms  reached  up  to  the  heather. 
We  progressed  by  a  meandering  lane  from  homestead 
to  homestead,  and  the  hill  grass  was  beautifully  green 
and  clean,  and  the  sun  shone  upon  it  in  an  easterly 
haze.  There  was  ploughing  going  on,  and  all  the  good, 
quiet  work  that  one  longs  to  do,  instead  of  brain- 
wringing  inside  four  walls.  I  wondered  deeply  and 
sincerely  whether  Home  Rule  could  increase  the 
peacefulness,  or  whether  it  will  not  be  like  upsetting 
a  basket  of  snakes  over  the  country.  These  people 
have  bought  their  land.  They  manage  their  own 
local  affairs.  Must  there  be  yet  another  upheaval 
for  them — and  a  damming  up  of  Old  Age  Pensions, 
which  now  flow  smoothly  and  balmily  among  them, 
to  the  enormous  comfort  and  credit  of  the  old  people  ? 
(And  since  I  saw  my  mother's  old  age  and  death  I 
have  understood  the  innermost  of  that  tragedy  of 
failing  life.) 

"  My  Cousin  and  I,  in  our  small  way,  live  in  the 


316  IRISH  MEMORIES 

manner  that  seems  advisable  for  Ireland.  We  make 
money  in  England  and  we  spend  it  over  here.  We  are 
sorry  for  those  who  have  to  live  in  London,  but  Ireland 
cannot  support  us  all  without  help. 

"  You  will  understand  now  how  badly  I  bored  your 
friend,  and  how  long-suffering  he  was." 

From  Captain  Stephen  Gwynn,  M.P.,  to  V.  F.  M. 

"  House  of  Commons. 

"  Feh.  8tK  1912. 

"  Your  letter  filled  me  with  a  desire  to  talk  to  you 
for  about  24  hours,  concerning  Ireland.  Why  snakes  ? 
....  what  demoralisation  is  going  to  come  to  your 

nice  country-side  because  they  send or  another, 

to  sit  in  Dublin  and  vote  on  Irish  affairs,  which  he 
understands  less  or  more,  instead  of  hanging  round 
at  St.  Stephens  ? 

"  We  have  too  much  abstract  politics  in  Ireland, 
we  want  them  real  and  concrete.  Take  Old  Age 
Pensions,  for  instance.  I  don't  for  an  instant  believe 
that  the  pension  will  ever  be  cut  down,  but  I  do  think 
that  an  Irish  Assembly  ought  to  decide  whether 
farmers  should  qualify  for  it  by  giving  their  farms  to 
their  sons.  I  do  think  that  we  ought  to  be  able  to 
pass  a  law  enabling  us  to  put  a  ferry  across  Corrib 
with  local  money ;  it  is  now  impossible  because  of 
one  Englishman's  opposition.  I  think  we  ought  to  be 
able  to  tackle  the  whole  transit  question,  including 
the  liberation  of  canals  from  railway  control,  and 
including  also  the  Train  Ferry  and  All  Red  Route 
possibilities.  In  1871  Lord  Hartington  said  it  was 
a  strong  argument  for  Home  Rule  that  a  Royal  Com- 
mission had  reported  in  1867  for  the  State  control 
of  Irish  railways,  forty  years  ago,  and  nothing  has 
been  done  but  to  appoint  another  Commission.     Poor 


VARIOUS  OPINIONS  817 

Law,  the  whole  Education  system— all  these  things 
want  an  assembly  of  competent  men,  with  leisure  and 
local  knowledge.  You  think  we  can't  get  them  ? 
That  is  the  trouble  with  people  like  you.  You  know 
the  peasantry  very  well ;  you  don't  know  the  middle 
class  ....  There  are  plenty  of  men  in  Ireland — men 
of  the  Nationalist  party— brilliant  young  men,  like 
Kettle,*  who  has  also  courage  and  enterprise.  He 
once  gave  us  all  a  lead  in  a  very  ugly  corner  with  a 
crowd. 

"  Devlin  is  to  my  thinking  as  good  a  man  as  Lloyd 
George,  and  that  is  a  big  word.  Redmond  and  Dillon 
seem  to  me  more  like  statesmen  than  anyone  on  either 
front  bench.  Of  course,  in  many  cases  here  you  feel 
the  want  of  an  educated  tradition  behind.  No  one 
can  count  the  harm  that  was  done  by  keeping  Catholics 
out  of  Trinity  Coll.,  Dublin.  But  beside  the  National- 
ists there  will  be  no  disinclination  to  employ  other 
educated  men,  witness  Kavanagh.  Some  of  our 
fiercer  people  wanted  to  stop  his  election,  right  or 
wrong,  but  we  reasoned  them  over,  and  once  he  got 
into  the  party  no  man  was  better  listened  to,  even 
when,  as  sometimes  happened,  he  differed  with  the 
majority  ....  He  would  be  in  an  Irish  Parliament, 
in  one  house  or  the  other,  and  a  better  public  man 
could  not  be  found  ....  To  my  mind  the  present 
System  breeds  what  you  have  called  '  snakes.'  In 
Clare,  among  the  finest  people  I  ever  met  in  Ireland, 
you  have  the  beastly  and  abominable  shooting,  and 
no  man  will  bring  another  to  justice.  They  are  out 
of  their  bearings  to  the  law,  and  will  be,  till  they  are 
made  to  feel  it  is  their  own  law.  And  the  scandal 
of  bribery  in  '  Local  Elections  '  will  never  be  put 
down  till  you  have  a  central  assembly  where  things 

*  Professor  Kettle  was  killed,  fighting  in  France,  in  the  Royal 
Dublin  Fusiliers  at  Ginchy,  in  September,  1916. 


318  IRISH  MEMORIES 

will  be  thrashed  out  without  any  fear  of  seeming 
to  back  '  Dublin  Castle  '  against  a  '  good  Nationalist.' 

"  For  Gentlefolk  (to  use  the  old  word)  who  want  to 
live  in  the  country,  Ireland  is  going  to  be  a  better 
place  to  live  in  than  it  has  been  these  thirty  years — 
yes,  or  than  before,  for  it  is  bad  for  people  to  be 
a  caste.  They  will  get  their  place  in  public  business, 
easily  and  welcome,  those  who  care  to  take  it,  but 
on  terms  of  equality,  with  the  rest.  Don't  tell  me 
that  Ireland  isn't  a  pleasanter  place  for  men  like 
Kavanagh  or  Walter  Nugent,  than  for  the  ordinary 
landlord  person  who  talks  about  '  we  '  and  '  they.' 

"  Caste  is  at  the  bottom  of  nine-tenths  of  our  trouble. 
A  Catholic  bishop  said  to  me,  drink  did  a  lot  of  harm 
in  Ireland,  but  not  half  as  much  as  gentility.  Every- 
body wanting  to  be  a  clerk.  Catholic  clerks  anxious 
to  be  in  Protestant  tennis  clubs,  Protestant  tennis 
clubs  anxious  to  keep  out  Catholic  clerks,  and  so 
on,  and  so  on.  My  friend,  a  guest  for  anybody's 
house  in  London,  in  half  of  Dublin  socially  impossible. 

"  I  am  prophesying,  no  doubt,  but  I  know,  and 
you,  with  all  your  knowledge  and  your  insight  donH 
know— what  is  best  worth  knowing  in  Ireland,  better 
even  than  the  lovely  ways  of  the  peasant  folk.  I've 
seen  and  rubbed  shoulders  with  men  in  the  making. 

"  You  don't,  for  instance,  know  D.  E.,  who   used 

to  drive  a  van  in  and  was  a  Fenian  in  arms, 

and  the  starved  orphan  of  a  labourer  first  of 

all, — and  is  now  the  very  close  personal  friend  of  a 
high  official  personage.  Now,  if  ever  I  met  Don 
Quixote  I  met  him  in  the  shoes  of  D.  E. ;  if  you  like 
a  little  want  of  training  to  digest  the  education  that 
he  acquired,  largely  in  gaol,  but  with  a  real  love  of 
fine  thoughts.  If  Sterne  could  have  heard  D.  E. 
and  another  old  warrior,  E.  P.  O'Kelly— and  a  very 
charming,    shrewd    old    person — quoting    '  Tristram 


VARIOUS  OPINIONS  819 

Shandy  '  which  they  got  by  heart  in  Kilmainham, 
Sterne  would  have  got  more  than  perhaps  he  deserved 
in  the  way  of  satisfaction. 

"  This  inordinate  epistle  is  my  very  embarrassing 
tribute.  You  know  so  much.  You  and  yours  stand 
for  so  much  that  is  the  very  choice  essence  of  Ireland, 
that  it  fills  me  with  distress  to  see  you  all  standing 
off  there  in  your  own  paddock,  distrustful  and  not 
even  curious  about  the  life  you  don't  necessarily 
touch. 

"  You  and  I  will  both  live,  probably,  to  see  a  new 
order  growing  up.  I  daresay  it  may  not  attract  you, 
and  may  disappoint  me,  only,  for  heaven's  sake, 
don't  think  it  is  going  to  be  all  *  snakes.' 

"  And  do  forgive  me  for  having  inflicted  all  this  on 
you.  After  all,  you  needn't  read  it — and  very  likely 
you  can't !...." 

V.  F.  M.  to  Captain  Gwynn,  M.P. 
"  Drishane  House, 

"  Skibbereen, 
''Feb.  10,  1912. 
"  I  do  indeed  value  your  letter,  and  like  to  think  you 
snatched  so  much  from  your  busy  day  in  order  to 
write  it.  ...  By  '  snakes  '  in  Ireland,  I  mean  a  set 
of  new  circumstances,  motives,  influences,  and  possi- 
bilities acting  on  people's  lives  and  characters,  and 
causing  disturbance.  My  chief  reason  for  this  fear 
that  I  have  is  that  Irish  Nationalism  is  not  one  good 
solid  piece  of  homespun.  It  is  a  patch  work.  There 
are  some  extremely  dangerous  factors  in  it,  one  of 
the  worst  being  the  Irish-American  revolutionary. 
The  older  Fenianism  lives  there,  plus  all  that  is  least 
favourable  in  American  republicanism.  .  .  .  (These) 
will  look  on  Ireland  as  the  depot  and  jumping-off 
place  for  their  animosity  to  England.     Apart  from 


820  IRISH  MEMORIES 

America  there  is  much  hostihty  to  England,  dormant 
and  theoretical,  innate  and  inherited — and  it  is  fostered 
by  certain  Gaelic  League  teachings.  Here  again  I 
speak  only  of  what  I  know  personally.  I  have  seen 
the  prize  book  of  Irish  poetry  given  at  a  '  Feis  '  to  a 
little  boy  as  a  prize  for  dancing.  A  series  of  war 
songs  against  England.  .  .  .  You  see  what  I  am 
aiming  at.  There  are  dangerous  elements  in  Ireland, 
and  strong  ones,  Irish-American,  Gaelic  League, 
Sinn  Fein,  and  what  I  feel  very  uncertain  about  is 
whether  straight  and  genuine  and  tolerant  people, 
like  you,  will  have  the  power  to  control  them.  With 
the  Home  Rule  banner  gone,  what  is  to  keep  them  in 
hand  ?  .  .  .  I  am  sure  that  you  will  despise  this 
feeling  on  my  part.  You  feel  that  the  Church  of 
Rome  is  with  you,  and  that  with  its  help  all  will  fall 
into  line.  And  you  feel  that  men  of  high  and  practical 
talent  are  with  you  and  must  prevail  ...  A  Roman 
Catholic  ascendancy  and  government  will  bring 
Socialism,  because  now-a-days  Socialism  is  the 
complementary  colour  of  R.C.  government  or 
ascendancy.  America  will  play  its  part  there — ^the 
general  trend  of  the  world  will  continue ;  the  priest- 
hood knows  it,  and  I  am  sorry  for  them.  I  do  not 
want  to  see  them  dishonoured  and  humiliated.  I 
know  their  influence  for  good  as  well  as  I  know  the 
danger  of  the  policy  of  their  Church.  That  is  my 
second  point.  A  Vatican  policy  for  Ireland  it  will 
have  to  be,  under  Home  Rule,  or  else  the  Priesthood 
is  shouldered  aside,  and  that  is  an  ugly  and  demoralis- 
ing thing.  The  religious  question  is  deep  below  all 
others,  and  we  all  are  aware  of  that.  There  is  perfect 
toleration  between  the  Protestants  and  Catholics 
individually  (except  for  the  North).  All,  as  far  as  I 
have  ever  known,  is  give  and  take  and  good-breeding 
on  the  subject.       We  accept  the  Holy  days  of  the 


VARIOUS  OPINIONS  '    321 

R.C.  Church  (which  are  still  in  full  force  in  the 
West)  and  they  go  to  early  Mass  in  order  that  they 
may  drive  us  to  church  later  in  the  day.  There  is  no 
trouble  whatever,  and  we  go  to  each  other's  funerals, 
etc.  !  But  the  larger  policy  of  the  Church  of  Rome  is 
a  different  thing,  and  a  dangerous — and  Socialism  is 
its  Nemesis.  .  .  . 

"  I  wish  that  I  did  know  the  men  you  speak  of. 
I  am  sure  they  are  tip-top  men,  and  no  one  realises 
more  than  I  do  the  talent  and  the  genius  that  lie 
among  the  Irish  lower  and  middle  classes.  I  am  not 
quite  clear  as  to  what  either  you  or  I  mean  by  '  middle 
classes,'  I  think  of  well-to-do  farmers,  and  small 
professional  people  in  the  towns.  We  know  both 
these  classes  pretty  well  down  here.  .  .  .  Last  year 
we  had  a  middle-class  man  at  luncheon  here,  an  able 
business  man,  working  like  a  nigger,  and  an  R.C. 
and  Home  Ruler.  We  discussed  the  matter. 
He  said,  as  all  you  genuine  people  say  and  believe, 
that  once  Home  Rule  was  granted,  the  good  men 
among  Protestant  Unionists  would  be  selected,  and 
the  wasters  flung  aside.  I  said,  and  still  say,  that  the 
brave  and  fair  thing  would  be  to  select  them  before- 
hand, show  trust  in  them,  give  them  confidence,  and 
then  indeed  there  would  be  a  strong  case  for  Home 
Rule.  His  argument  was  that  they  must  keep  up 
this  artificial,  feverish,  acrid  agitation,  or  their  case 
falls  to  the  ground.  Two  exactly  opposite  points  of 
view. 

"  The  people  that  I  am  most  afraid  of  are  the  town 
politicians.  I  am  not  fond  of  anything  about  towns  ; 
they  are  full  of  second-hand  thinking ;  they  know 
nothing  of  raw  material  and  the  natural  philosophy 
of  the  country  people.  As  to  caste,  it  is  in  the  towns 
that  the  vulgar  idea  of  caste  is  created.  The  country 
people  believe  in  it  strongly  ;  they  cling  to  a  belief  in 


822  IRISH  MEMORIES 

what  it  should  stand  for  of  truth  and  honour— and 
there  the  best  classes  touch  the  peasant  closely,  and 
understand  each  other.  '  A  lady's  word.'  ^  How 
often  has  that  been  brought  up  before  me  as  a  thing 
incorruptible  and  unquestionable,  and  it  incites  one, 
and  humbles  one,  and  gives  a  consciousness  of  deep 
responsibility. 

"  I  think  the  social  tight  places  you  speak  of  exist 
just  as  tightly  in  England,  Scotland,  and  Wales. 
Social  ambition  is  vulgarity,  of  course,  and  even  a 
republican  spirit  does  not  cure  it — witness  America. 
It  is  not  Ireland  alone  that  is  '  sicklied  o'er  with  the 
pale  thought  of  caste  ! '  .  .  .  I  venture  to  think  that 
your  friend  looks  on  me  with  a  friendly  eye,  especially 
since  I  told  him  that  my  foster-mother  took  me 
secretly,  as  a  baby  to  the  priest  and  had  me  baptised. 
It  was  done  for  us  all,  and  my  father  and  mother  knew 
it  quite  well,  and  never  took  any  notice.  I  was  also 
baptised  by  Lord  Plunket  in  the  drawing-room  at 
Ross,  so  the  two  Churches  can  fight  it  out  for 
me  !  .  .  ." 

V.  F.  M.  to  Captain  Gwynn. 

"  Drishane, 
''Nov.  8,  1912. 

"  It  is  nice  of  you  to  let  the  authors  of '  Dan  Russel ' 
know  that  what  they  said  has  helped  ^  .  .  .  and  I 
can  assure  you  that  it  gives  us  real  pleasure  to  think 
of  it. 

"  I  am  very  glad  that  you  yourself  like  it,  and  feel 
with  us  about  John  Michael  and  Mrs.  Delanty. 

"  One  does  not  meet  these  people  out  of  Ireland  ; 
they  are  a  blend  not  to  be  arrived  at  elsewhere.     But 

1  To  this  may  be  added  a  companion  phrase.  "  A  Gentleman's 
bargain  ;  no  huxthering  !  " 

2  See  Appendix  II. 


VARIOUS  OPINIONS  828 

I  wish  there  were  more  John  Michaels ;  shyness  is  so 
nice  a  quahty  when  it  goes  deep.  In  fact  all  really 
nice  people  have  shy  hearts,  I  think — but  their 
friends  enjoy  the  quality  more  than  they  do,  .  .  . 
I  was  up  in  the  North  myself  at  the  Signing  of  the 
Covenant,  not  in  Belfast,  but  in  the  country.  I  went 
up  on  a  visit  there,  not  as  a  journalist,  but  when  I 
saw  what  I  saw  I  wrote  an  article  about  it  for  the 
Spectator.  I  did  not  know  the  North  at  all  ...  I 
send  you  what  I  wrote,  because  it  is  an  honest  impres- 
sion. What  surprised  me  about  the  place  was  the 
feeling  of  cleverness,  and  go,  and  also  the  people 
struck  me  as  being  hearty.  If  only  the  South  would 
go  up  North  and  see  what  they  are  doing  there,  and 
how  they  are  doing  it,  and  ask  them  to  show  them 
how,  it  would  make  a  good  deal  of  difference.  And  then 
the  North  should  come  South  and  see  what  nice 
people  we  are,  and  how  we  do  that !  Your  lovely 
Donegal  I  did  not  see,  but  hope  to  do  that  next  time. 
You  need  not  send  back  the  Spectator,  because  that  is 
a  heavy  supertax  on  the  reader." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE    LAST 

She  hid  it  always,  close  against  her  breast, 

A  golden  vase,  close  sealed  and  strangely  wrought, 
And  set  with  gems,  whose  dim  eyes,  mystery  fraught, 

Shot  broken  gleams,  like  secrets  half  confessed. 

"  One  day,"  she  said,  "  Love's  perfumed  kisses  pressed 
Against  its  lip  their  perfectness,  unsought, 
And  suddenly  the  dizzy  fragrance  caught 

My  senses  in  its  mesh,  and  gave  them  rest. 
And  life's  disquietude  no  more  I  feel. 
For  now,"  she  said,  "  my  heart  sleeps  still  and  light. 
Love's  Anodyne  outlasts  the  lingering  years  ! " 
But  in  the  darkness  of  an  autumn  night 
Her  heart  woke,  weeping,  and  she  brake  the  seal. 
The  scent  was  dead ;  the  vase  was  full  of  tears. 

I  HAVE  come  to  what  must  be  the  final  chapter, 
and  the  thought  most  present  with  me  is  that  in  writing 
it  I  am  closing  the  door  on  these  memories  of  two 
lives  that  made  the  world  a  pleasant  place  for  each 
other,  and  I  find  now  that  although  I  began  them 
with  reluctance,  it  is  with  reluctance  still  that  I 
must  end  them. 

It  has  been  hard,  often,  to  leave  untold  so  many 
of  those  trivial  things  that  counted  for  more,  in  the 
long  run,  than  the  occasional  outstanding  facts  of 
two  quite  uneventful  lives.  I  fear  I  have  yielded 
too  much  to  the  temptation  of  telling  and  talking 


THE  LAST  825 

nonsense,  and  now  there  remains  only  the  Appendix 
in  which  to  retrieve  Martin's  character  and  mine 
for  intelhgence  and  for  a  serious  concern  for  the 
things  that  are  serious. 

To  return  to  our  work,  which  for  us,  at  all  events, 
if  for  no  one  else,  was  serious.  As  soon  as  we  had 
recovered  from  "  Dan  Russel,"  Martin  set  forth 
on  what  I  find  entered  in  my  diary  as  "  a  series  of 
tribal  war-dances  round  the  County  Galway,"  which 
meant  that  she  paid  visits,  indefatigably,  and  with 
entire  satisfaction,  in  her  own  county  and  among 
her  own  allies  and  kinsfolk.  I  should  like  to  quote 
her  account  of  a  visit  to  one  of  her  oldest  friends, 
Lady  Gregory,  at  Coole  Park,  where  she  met  (and  much 
enjoyed  meeting)  Mr.  W.  B.  Yeats,  and  where  she, 
assisted  by  the  poet,  carved  her  initials  on  a  tree 
dedicated  to  the  Muses,  whereon  A.  E.,  and  Dr. 
Douglas  Hyde,  and  others  of  high  achievement 
had  inscribed  themselves.  But  I  must  hold  to  the 
ordinance  of  silence  as  to  living  people  that  she  herself 
ordained  and  would  wish  me  to  observe. 

No  one  ever  enjoyed  good  company  more  than 
Martin,  and,  as  the  beggars  say,  she  "  thravelled  the 
County  Galway,"  and  there  was  good  company  and 
a  welcome  before  her  wherever  she  went. 

At  about  this  time  she  and  I  were  invited  to  a 
public  dinner  in  Dublin,  given  to  Irish  literary  women 
by  the  Corinthian  Club ;  and,  having  secured  exemp- 
tion from  speech-making,  we  found  it  a  highly 
interesting  entertainment,  at  which  were  materialised 
for  us  many  who  till  then  had  been  among  the  things 
believed  in  but  not  seen.  At  this  time  also,  or  a 
little  later,  I  re-established  the  West  Carbery  Hounds, 
after  a  brief  interregnum.  I  only  now  allude  to  them 
in  order  to  record  the  fact  that  when  the  first  draft 
of   the    reconstituted    pack    arrived,    the    lamented 

Y*  2 


826  IRISH  MEMORIES 

"  Slipper  "  (now  no  more)  met  them  at  the  station 
with  an  enormous  bouquet  of  white  flowers  in  what 
might  have  begun  life  as  a  button-hole,  and  a  tall 
hat.  He  cheered  the  six  couples  as  they  left  the 
station  yard  (accompanied,  it  may  not  be  out  of 
place  to  mention,  ridiculously,  by  two  and  a  half 
gambolling  couples  of  black  and  white  British-Hol- 
stein  young  cattle,  on  a  herd  of  which  magpie  breed 
my  sister  and  I  were  embarking),  and  then,  as  the 
procession  moved  like  a  circus  through  the  streets  of 
Skibbereen,  "  Slipper  "  renewed  the  task  of  drinking 
all  their  healths,  this  time  at  my  expense. 

The  doctrine  that  sincere  friendship  is  only  possible 
between  men  dies  hard.  It  is,  at  last,  in  the  fulness 
of  time,  expiring  by  force  of  fact,  and  is  now,  like 
many  another  decayed  convention,  dragging  out  a 
deplorable  old  age  in  facetious  paragraphs  in  "  Comic 
Corners,"  where  the  Mother-in-law,  Mrs.  Gamp  and 
her  ministrations,  and  the  Unfortunate  Husband 
(special  stress  being  laid  on  the  sufferings  endured 
by  the  latter  while  his  wife  is  enjoying  herself  upstairs) 
gibber  together,  and  presumably  amuse  someone. 

The  outstanding  fact,  as  it  seems  to  me,  among 
women  who  live  by  their  brains,  is  friendship.  A 
profound  friendship  that  extends  through  every  phase 
and  aspect  of  life,  intellectual,  social,  pecuniary. 
Anyone  who  has  experience  of  the  life  of  independent 
and  artistic  women  knows  this  ;  and  it  is  noteworthy 
that  these  friendships  of  women  will  stand  even 
the  strain  of  matrimony  for  one  or  both  of  the  friends. 
I  gravely  doubt  that  David  saw  much  of  Jonathan 
after  the  death  of  Uriah. 

However,  controversy,  and  especially  controversy 
of  this  complexion,  is  a  bore.  As  Martin  said,  in 
a  letter  to  me, 

"  Rows  are  a  mistake  ;  which  is  the  only  reason  I 


THE  LAST  827 

don't  fight  with  you  for  invariably  spelling  '  practice,' 
the  noun,  with  an  '  s.'  " 

Martin  had  a  very  special  gift  for  friendship, 
both  with  women  and  with  men.  Her  sympathies 
were  wide,  and  her  insight  into  character  and  motive 
enabled  her  to  meet  each  of  her  many  friends  on  their 
own  ground,  and  to  enter  deeply  and  truly  into 
their  lives,  and  give  them  a  share  in  hers. 

In  spite  of  the  ordinance  of  silence,  I  feel  as  if  she 
would  wish  me  to  record  in  this  book  the  names, 
at  least,  of  some  of  those  whom  she  delighted  to 
honour,  and,  with  all  diffidence,  I  beg  them  to 
understand  that  in  the  very  brief  mention  of  them 
that  will  be  found  in  the  Appendix,  I  have  only 
ventured  to  do  this  because  I  believe  that  she 
desires  it. 

I  suppose  it  was  the  result  of  old  habit,  and  of 
the  return  of  the  hounds,  but,  for  whatever  reason, 
during  the  years  that  followed  the  appearance  of 
"  Dan  Russel  the  Fox,"  Martin  and  I  put  aside  the 
notions  we  had  been  dwelling  upon  in  connection 
with  "  a  serious  novel,"  and  took  to  writing  "  R.M." 
stories  again.  These,  six  couple  of  them  (like 
the  first  draft  of  the  re-established  pack),  wandered 
through  various  periodicals,  chiefly  Blackwood's  Maga- 
zine, and  in  July,  1915,  they  were  published  in  a 
volume  with  the  title  of  "  In  Mr.  Knox's  Country." 

We  were  in  Kerry  when  the  book  appeared,  or 
rather  we  were  on  our  way  there,  I  remember 
with  what  anxiety  I  bought  a  Spectator  at  the  Mallow 
platform  bookstall,  and  even  more  vividly  do  I  recall 
our  departure  from  Mallow,  when  Martin,  and  Ethel 
Penrose,  and  I,  all  violently  tried  to  read  the  Spectator 
review  of  Mr.  Knox  at  the  same  moment. 

****** 

I  will  say  nothing  now  of  the  time  that  we  spent 


328  IRISH  MEMORIES 

in  Kerry  ;  a  happy  time,  in  lovely  weather,  in  a  lovely 
place.  It  was  the  last  of  many  such  times,  and  it 
is  too  near,  now,  to  be  written  of. 

I  will  try  no  more.  Withered  leaves,  blowing  in 
through  the  open  window  before  a  September  gale, 
are  falling  on  the  page.  Our  summers  are  ended. 
"  '  Vanity  of  vanities,'  saith  the  Preacher." 

I  have  tried  to  write  of  the  people,  and  the  things, 
and  the  events  that  she  loved  and  was  interested  in. 
It  has  been  a  happiness  to  me  to  do  so,  and  at  times, 
while  I  have  been  writing,  the  present  has  been  for- 
gotten and  I  have  felt  as  though  I  were  recapturing 
some  of  the  "  careless  rapture  "  of  older  days. 

The  world  is  still  not  without  its  merits  ;  I  am 
not  ungrateful,  and  I  have  many  reasons  that  are 
not  all  in  the  past,  and  one  in  especial  of  which  I 
will  not  now  speak,  for  gratitude.  But  there  is  a 
thing  that  an  old  widow  woman  said,  long  ago,  that 
remains  in  my  mind.  Her  husband — she  spoke  of 
him  as  "  her  kind  companion  " — ^had  died,  and  she 
said  to  me,  patiently,  and  without  tears, 

"  Death  makes  people  lonesome,  my  dear." 


Finis. 


APPENDIX  I 

LETTERS  FROM  CHIEF  JUSTICE  CHARLES  KENDAL  BUSHE 
TO   MRS.    BUSHE 

Charles  Kendal  Bushe  to  Mrs.  Bushe. 

Waterford.     (Undated.) 
Probably  July  or  August,  1798. 

"  Within  this  day  or  two  the  United  Irishmen  rose 
in  the  Co  Kilkenny  and  disarm'd  every  gentleman  and 
man  in  the  County  except  Pierce  Butler.  O'Flaherty, 
Davis,  Nixon,  Lee,  and  Tom  Murphy  was  not  spar'd 
and  they  even  beat  up  the  Quarters  of  Bob's  Seraglio, 
but  he  had  the  day  before  taken  the  precaution  to 
remove  his  arms,  and  among  them  my  double  barrell'd 
Gun,  to  Pierce  Butler's  as  a  place  of  safety,  so  that  no 
arms  remain'd  but  the  arms  of  his  Dulcinea,  but  what 
they  did  in  that  respect  Bob  says  not  ....  The 
United  men  have  done  one  serious  mischief  which 
is  that  they  have  discredited  Bank  notes  to  such  a 
degree  that  in  Wexford  no  one  wd  give  a  Crown  for  a 
national  note  or  take  one  in  payment  and  here  tho 
they  take  them  they  wont  give  Change  for  them  so 
that  at  the  Bar  Room  we  are  oblig'd  to  pass  little 
promissory  notes  for  our  Dinner  and  pay  them  when 
they  come  to  a  Guinea.  I  assure  you  if  you  ow'd 
17  shillgs  here  no  one  wou'd  give  you  four  and  take  a 
Guinea.     As  to  Gold  it  is  vanish'd.     I  have  receiv'd 


330  IRISH  MEMORIES 

but  2  Gold  Guineas  in  £133.0.0  since  I  came  on 
Circuit.  There  is  a  good  deal  of  Alarm  about  these 
United  Men  every  where." 

Another  letter,  written  at  about  the  same  time  as 
the  above,  is  dated  "  Wexford,  July  twenty  sixth. 
1798."  It  seems  to  have  been  written  while  on  circuit, 
a  short  time  after  the  suppression  of  the  Rebellion. 


Charles  Kendal  Bushe  to  Mrs.  Bushe. 
"  My  dearest  Nancy, 

"  We  return  by  Ross  "  (Co.  Wexford)  "  both  for 
greater  safety  and  that  we  may  see  the  scene  of  the 
famous  battle."  (This  probably  was  Vinegar  Hill). 
"  From  every  observation  I  can  make  it  appears  to 
me  that  this  Country  is  completely  quieted ;  if  you 
were  to  hear  all  the  different  anecdotes  told  here 
you  wou'd  suppose  you  were  reading  another  Helen 
Maria  Williams.  I  shall  give  you  but  one— Col. 
Lehunte  who  is  very  civil  to  us  was  a  prisoner  to  the 
Rebels  and  tolerably  well  treated  as  such  till  one  day 
in  the  tattering  (sic)  of  his  house  a  Room— furnish'd 
with  antique  ornaments  in  black  and  orange  was 
discover'd  a  small  Skreen  in  the  same  colours  with 
heathen  divinities  on  it.  This  Skreen  was  carried 
instantly  by  the  enrag'd  mob  thro  the  town  as  a  proof 
of  an  intended  Massacre  by  the  Orange  Men.  This 
Skreen,  says  the  famous  fury  Mrs.  Dixon,  was  to  be 
the  standard  of  their  Cavalry.  This,  (Hope)  is  the 
anchor  on  which  the  Catholic  sailors  were  to  be  roasted 
alive—  This,  (Jupiter's  Eagle)  is  the  Vulture  that  was 
to  pick  out  the  Catholic  Children's  Eyes—  She  went 
thro  the  Mythology  of  the  Skreen  in  this  rational 
Exposition  and  entirely  convinc'd  the  Mob.  In  a 
moment  Col.  Lehunte  was  dragg'd  out  to  Execution 


APPENDIX  I  331 

and  his  life  was  sav'd  in  the  same  manner  his  house 
was,  by  the  number  of  disputants  who  shou'd  take  it. 
He  received  three  pike  wounds  and  was  beat  almost 
to  death  with  sticks  and  the  end  of  firelocks  and  at  last 
taken  back  for  a  more  deliberate  Execution  in  the 
morning,  being  thrown  for  the  night  into  a  Dungeon 
where  he  lay  wounded  on  fetters,  bolts,  and  broken 
Bottles.  This  is  a  venerable  old  Gentleman,  near  70 
years  old. 

"  We  hear  many  such  stories.  The  Bridge  is  deep 
stain'd  with  blood. 

"  Ever  yours,  my  darling  Nancy, 

"  C.  K.   BUSHE." 

The  temptation  to  quote  extensively  from  these 
early  letters  of  "  the  Chief "  cannot  be  too  freely 
indulged  in,  but  I  may  include  an  account,  written 
from  Clonmel,  in  about  1797,  to  his  wife,  giving  an 
account  of  what  he  calls  "  a  most  novel  and  extra- 
ordinary and  disgusting  species  of  crime  "  ;  which  is 
a  moderate  way  of  defining  the  comprehensive  atrocity 
of  the  act  in  question. 

Charles  Kendal  Bushe  to  Mrs.  Bushe. 

Clonmel.     (circa  1797.) 

"  .  .  .  .  The  woman  was  clearly  convicted  and  will 
be  exemplarily  punish'd  for  it.  She  robb'd  a  church- 
yard of  the  hand  of  a  dead  man  which  she  put  into 
all  the  milk  she  churn'd.  Butter  making  is  a  great 
part  of  the  trade  of  the  Country  and  the  unfortunate 
Wretch  was  persuaded  that  this  hand  drawn  thro  the 
Milk  in  the  devil's  name  would  give  a  miraculous 
quantity  of  butter,  and  it  seems  she  has  long  made  it 
a  practice." 


332  IRISH  MEMORIES 

From  Chief  Justice  Bushe  to  Mrs.  Bushe. 

"  Omagh.     Monday  August  16.  1810. 

"  My  dearest  Nan, 

"  By  making  a  forc'd  march  with  Smyly  here  I 
have  arrived  some  hours  before  the  other  Judge, 
Cavalcade  &c.  and  I  have  for  the  first  time  since  I  left 
town  sat  down  in  a  room  by  myself  with  something 
like  tranquillity,  at  least  that  negative  Repose  that 
consists  in  the  absence  of  stress  or  clamour  fuss  and 
hurry.  The  day  has  fortunately  been  good  and  with- 
out stopping  we  rode  here,  21  miles  across  the 
mountains.  This  I  found  pleasant  and  indeed  neces- 
sary after  the  Confinement  and  bad  weather  which 
we  have  had  uninterruptedly  since  we  left  Dublin. 
You  have  no  notion  of  such  a  den  as  Cavan  is.  It  is 
no  wonder  that  poor  Smyly  us'd  to  get  fever  in  it, 
I  am  only  astonish'd  that  I  ever  got  out  of  it  for  I 
was  not  for  a  moment  well.  It  lies  at  the  bottom  of  a 
Bason  form'd  by  many  hills  closing  in  on  each  other, 
and  is  surrounded  by  bogs  and  lakes.  The  Sun  can 
scarcely  reach  it,  you  look  up  at  the  heavens  as  you 
do  out  of  a  jail  yard  that  has  high  walls  and  I  was  glad 
to  have  a  large  Turf  fire  in  my  Room.  The  Water 
is  quite  yellow  and  deranges  the  stomach  &c.  so  that 
my  poor  head  was  a  mass  of  confusion  and  my  Spirits 
were  slack  enough  ....  After  breakfast,  bad  as  the 
day  was,  I  got  a  boat  and  went  on  the  lake  (Lough 
Erne)  and  sail'd  to  the  Island  of  Devenish  where  there 
is  a  curious  Ruin  of  an  antient  place  of  worship  and  a 
Round  Tower  in  as  perfect  preservation  as  the  day  it 
was  built  ....  Short  as  the  time  was  if  the  weather 
had  been  favourable  I  was  determined  upon  seeing 
Lough  Derg  and  St.  Patrick's  purgatory  which  is  in 
a  small  island  in  the  middle  of  it  and  which  is  in  its 


APPENDIX  I  333 

history  certainly  one  of  the  greatest  Curiosities  in 
Europe. 1  It  has  maintained  its  Character  as  the 
principal  place  of  penance  in  the  World  since  the  first 
Establishment  of  Christianity  in  Ireland  and  is  as 
much  frequented  now  by  Pilgrims  from  all  Countries 
as  it  was  in  what  we  are  in  the  habit  of  calling  the 
darker  ages,  as  freely  as  if  our  own  was  enlighten'd. 
Miller's  house  is  about  ten  miles  from  it  and  he  has 
by  enquiries  from  the  Priests  and  otherwise  ascer- 
tained that  the  average  number  of  pilgrims  during  the 
season  which  begins  with  the  Summer  and  ends  with 
the  first  of  August  exceeds  ten  thousand.  This  last 
Season  in  this  present  year  the  number  was  much 
greater.      They  all  perform  their  journey  barefooted 

1  "  Evidence  of  the  widespread  fame  of  St.  Patrick's  Purgatory, 
Lough  Derg,  Co.  Donegal,  in  mediaeval  days  is  furnished  by  a  docu- 
ment recently  copied  from  the  Chancery  treaty  roll  of  Richard  II. 
This  is  a  safe  conduct  issued  on  the  6th  September,  1397,  to  Raymond 
Viscount  of  Perilleux,  Knight  of  Rhodes,  a  subject  of  the  King  of 
France,  who  desired  to  make  the  pilgrimage.  It  was  addressed  to 
all  constables,  marshals,  admirals,  senechals,  governors,  bailiffs, 
prefects,  captains,  castellans,  majors,  magistrates,  counsellors 
of  cities  and  towns,  guardians  of  camps,  ports,  bridges  and  pass- 
ways,  and  their  subordinates — in  a  word,  to  all  those  who  under 
one  title  or  another  exercised  some  authority  in  those  days — and 
recited  that  Raymond  '  intends  and  purposes  to  come  into  our 
Kingdom  of  England  and  to  cross  over  and  travel  through  the  said 
Kingdom  to  our  land  of  Ireland,  there  to  see  and  visit  the  Pur- 
gatory of  St.  Patrick,  with  twenty  men  and  thirty  horses  in  his 
company.'  The  conduct  went  on  to  enjoin  that  any  of  the 
little  army  of  officials  mentioned  above  should  not  molest  the  said 
Raymond  during  his  journey  to  Lough  Derg,  nor  during  his  return 
therefrom,  nor  as  far  as  in  them  lay  should  they  permit  injury  to  him, 
his  men,  horses  or  property  ;  provided  always  that  the  Viscount 
and  his  men  on  entering  any  camp,  castle  or  fortified  town,  should 
present  the  letter  of  safe  conduct  to  the  guardians  of  the  place, 
and  in  purchasing  make  fair  and  ready  payment  for  food  or  other 
necessaries.  The  safe  conduct  was  valid  until  the  Easter  of  the 
following  year.  Besides  showing  that  over  five  hundred  years  ago 
foreigners  were  anxious  to  make  the  pilgrimage  which  so  many 
make  in  the  present  age,  the  document  is  interesting  inasmuch  as  it 
gives  an  indication  of  the  difficulties  under  which  a  pilgrim  or  tourist 
travelled  in  the  fourteenth  century."  {Corh  Examiner,  August  8, 
1917.) 


334  IRISH  MEMORIES 

and  in  mean  Dress  but  those  of  the  upper  Class  are 
discover'd  by  the  delicacy  of  their  hands  and  feet. 
There  is  a  large  ferry  Boat  which  from  morning  to 
night  is  employ'd  in  transporting  and  retransporting 
them.  Each  Pilgrim  remains  24  hours  in  the  Island 
performing  Devotions  round  certain  stone  altars  calPd 
Stations,  at  which  five  Priests  perpetually  officiate. 
All  this  time  and  for  some  time  before  they  strictly 
fast,  and  on  leaving  the  Island  the  Priest  gives  them 
what  is  called  Bread  and  Wine,  that  is  Bread  and  Lake 
water  which  they  positively  assert  has  the  Taste  of 
wine  and  the  power  of  refreshing  and  recovering 
them  .  .  .   ." 

The  end  of  this  letter,  giving  a  description  of  a 
visit  to  Edgeworthstown,  appears  in  the  book, 
Chapter  II,  page  47. 


APPENDIX  II 

The  following  is  written  by  Captain  Stephen  Gwynn, 
M.P.,  Member  for  Galway  City,  who  has  very  kindly 
permitted  me  to  include  it  among  these  memories. 

Probably  no  one  can  have  really  known  "  Martin 
Ross  "  who  did  not  spend  some  time  in  her  company 
either  in  Connemara  or  West  Cork.  I,  to  my  sorrow, 
only  met  her  once,  at  a  Dublin  dinner  table.  That 
hour's  talk  has  left  on  my  mind  a  curiously  limited 
and  even  negative  impression.  She  looked  surpris- 
ingly unlike  a  person  who  spent  much  of  her  life  in 
the  open  air ;  and  it  was  hard  to  associate  her  with 
the  riotous  humour  of  many  "  R.M."  stories.  What 
remains  positive  in  the  impression  is  a  sense  of  extreme 
fineness  and  delicacy,  qualities  which  reflect  them- 
selves in  the  physical  counterparts  of  that  restraint 
and  sure  taste  which  are  in  the  essence  of  all  that  she 
signed. 

That  one  meeting  served  me  well,  however,  because 
out  of  it  arose  casually  an  intermittent  correspondence 
which  passed  into  terms  of  something  like  friendship. 
Once  at  all  events  I  traded,  as  it  were,  on  a  friend's 
kindness  ;  for  when  a  boy  of  mine  lay  sick  abroad, 
and  I  was  seeking  for  acceptable  things  to  bring  to  his 
bedside,  I  wrote  repeatedly  to  Martin  Ross,  provoking 
replies  from  a  most  generous  letter- writer — letters  very 
touching  in  their  kindness. 

But  most  of  our  communications  had  their  source 


886  IRISH  MEMORIES 

in  the  prompting  which  urged  her  to  speak  her  mind 
to  a  Nationahst  Member  of  Parhament,  concerning 
happenings  in  Ireland.  These  letters  show  how 
gravely  and  anxiously  she  thought  about  her  country, 
and  events  have  written  a  grim  endorsement  on 
certain  of  her  apprehensions.  She  was  never  of  those 
who  can  be  content  to  regard  Ireland  as  a  pleasant 
place  for  sport,  full  of  easy,  laughable  people  ;  or  she 
would  never  have  understood  Ireland  with  that  in- 
tensity which  can  be  felt  even  in  her  humour.  If 
her  letters  show  that  she  was  often  angry  with  her 
countrymen,  they  show  too  that  it  was  because  she 
could  not  be  indifferent  to  the  honour  of  Ireland. 
September,  1917. 


APPENDIX  III 

HER   FRIENDS 

In  trying  to  include  in  these  divagations  the  names 
of  some  of  the  chief  among  the  friends  of  Martin 
Ross,  I  am  met  at  once  by  the  thought  of  her  brothers 
and  sisters.  These  were  first  in  her  life,  and  they 
held  their  place  in  it,  and  in  her  heart,  in  a  manner 
that  is  not  always  given  to  brothers  and  sisters. 
Two  griefs,  the  death  of  her  eldest  brother,  Robert, 
and  of  the  sister  next  to  her  in  age,  Edith  Dawson, 
struck  her  with  a  force  that  can  best  be  measured 
by  what  the  loss  of  two  people  so  entirely  lovable 
meant  to  others  less  near  to  them  than  she.  Hand- 
some and  amusing,  charming  and  generous,  one 
may  go  on  heaping  up  adjectives,  yet  come  no 
nearer  to  explaining  to  those  who  did  not  know  Edith 
what  was  lost  when  she  died.  Many  of  the  times 
to  which  Martin  looked  back  with  most  enjoyment 
were  spent  with  Edith  and  her  husband,  Cuthbert 
Dawson.  Colonel  Dawson  was  then  in  the  Queen's 
Bays,  and  Martin's  stories  of  those  soldiering  days 
were  full  of  riding,  and  steam-launching,  and  motoring 
(the  last  at  an  early  period  in  history,  when,  in  Conne- 
mara  at  all  events,  a  motor  was  described  by  the  poor 
people  as  "  a  hell-cart,"  and  received  as  such).  All 
these  things,  and  the  more  dangerous  the  better, 
were  what  she  and  Edith  found  their  pleasure  in, 


838  IRISH  MEMORIES 

with  the  spirit  that  took  all  the  fun  that  was  going 
in  its  stride,  and  did  not  flinch  when  trouble,  suffering, 
and  sorrow  had  to  be  faced. 

Of  Robert,  she  has  herself  written,  and  now  but 
one  brother  and  one  sister  of  all  that  brilliant  family 
remain ;  Mr.  James  Martin,  the  Head  of  the  House, 
and  Mrs.  Hamilton  Currey,  whose  husband,  the 
late  Commander  Hamilton  Currey,  R.N.,  was  a 
distinguished  writer  on  naval  matters,  and  was  one 
whose  literary  opinion  was  very  deeply  valued  by 
Martin. 

She  was,  as  Captain  Gwynn  has  said,  "  a  generous 
letter- writer,"  and  I  have  been  allowed  by  him  and 
by  one  of  her  very  special  friends,  Mrs.  Campbell, 
to  make  extracts  from  some  of  her  letters  to  them. 
Her  letters,  as  Mrs.  Campbell  says,  "  have  so  much 
of  her  delightful  self  in  them,"  that  I  very  much 
regret  that,  for  various  reasons,  I  have  not  been 
able  to  print  more  of  them. 

Another  of  her  great  friends  was  Miss  Nora  Tracey, 
with  whom  she  was  staying  in  Ulster  at  the  tremen- 
dous moment  of  the  signing  of  the  Ulster  Covenant. 
Few  things  ever  made  a  deeper  political  impression 
upon  Martin  than  did  that  visit,  and  the  insight 
that  she  then  gained  into  Ulster  and  its  fierce  in- 
tensity of  purpose  did  not  cease  to  influence  her 
views.  Whatever  political  opinions  may  be  held, 
and  however  much  the  attitude  of  No  Compromise 
may  be  regretted,  the  impressiveness  of  Ulster  has 
to  be  acknowledged.  No  one  was  more  sensitive 
to  this  than  Martin,  and  an  article  that,  at  this 
time,  she  wrote  and  sent  to  the  Spectator  was  inspired 
by  what  she  saw  and  heard  in  the  North  during 
that  time  of  crisis. 

Name  after  name  of  her  friends  comes  to  me,  and 
I  can  only  feel  the  futility  of  writing  them  down. 


APPENDIX  III  339 

and  thinking  that  in  so  doing  it  is  possible  to  explain 
her  talent  for  friendship,  her  fine  and  faithful  enthusi- 
asm for  the  people  whom  she  liked  ;  still  less  to  indicate 
how  much  their  affection,  and  interest,  and  sympathy 
helped  to  fill  her  life,  and  to  make  it  what  it  was, 
a  happy  one. 

A  few  names  at  least  I  may  record. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Edmund  Helps,  Rose  Helps,  Mr.  C. 
L.  Graves,  Lady  Gregory,  Mrs.  Wynne  (who  is  one 
of  Lord  Morris's  daughters,  and  is  one  of  a  family 
of  old  Gal  way  friends  and  neighbours).  Miss  Gertrude 
Sweetnam,  Miss  A.  S.  Kinkead,  Sir  Horace  Plunkett, 
Fan  Morris,  "  Jem "  Barlow,  and  Martin  Ross's 
kinsman,  Mr.  Justice  Archer  Martin,  Justice  of  Appeal, 
Victoria,  B.C. 

It  is  of  no  avail  to  prolong  the  list,  though  I  could 
do  so  (and  I  ask  to  be  forgiven  for  unintentional 
omissions),  and  I  will  do  no  more  than  touch  on  her 
many  friends  among  our  many  relations.  Rose  Bar- 
ton, Ethel  Penrose  (my  own  oldest  friend,  loved  by 
Martin  more  than  most),  Violet  Coghill,  Loo-Loo 
Plunket,  Jim  Penrose  (that  "  Professor  of  Embroidery 
and  Collector  of  Irish  Point "  to  whom  she  dedicated 
the  "  Patrick's  Day  Hunt  "),  and,  nearest  of  all  after 
her  own  family,  my  sister  and  my  five  brothers,  to 
all  of  whom  she  was  as  another  sister,  only,  as  the 
Army  List  says,  "  with  precedence  of  that  rank." 

An  end  must  come.  I  am  afraid  I  have  forgotten 
much,  and  I  know  I  have  failed  in  much  that  I  had 
hoped  to  do,  but  I  know,  too,  however  far  I  may 
have  come  short,  that  the  memory  of  Martin  Ross 
is  safe  with  her  friendsi 


APPENDIX  IV 

BIBLIOGRAPHY 

"  An  Irish  Cousin."         1889  :  R.  Bentley  &  Son ; 

1903 :  Longmans,  Green  &  Co. 
"  Naboth's  Vineyard."    1891:  Spencer  Blackett. 
"Through  Connemara  in  a  Governess  Cart." 

1892  :  W.  H.  Allen  &  Co. 
"  In  the  Vine  Country."  1893  :  W.  H.  Allen  &  Co. 
"  The  Real  Charlotte."    1895  :  Ward  &  Downey  ; 

1900 :  Longmans,  Green  &  Co. 
"Beggars  on  Horseback." 

1895  :  Blackwood  &  Sons. 
"The  Silver  Fox."  1897:  Lawrence  and  BuUen; 

1910 :  Longmans,  Green  &  Co. 
"  Some  Experiences  of  an  Irish  R.M." 

1899  :  Longmans,  Green  &  Co. 
"  A  Patrick's  Day  Hunt." 

1902  :  Constable  &  Co. 
"  Slipper's  A  B  C  of  Foxhunting." 

1903  :  Longmans,  Green  &  Co. 
"All  on  the  Irish  Shore." 

1903  :  Longmans,  Green  &  Co. 
"Some  Irish  Yesterdays." 

1906  :  Longmans,  Green  &  Co. 
"Further  Experiences  of  an  Irish  R.M." 

1908  :  Longmans,  Green  &  Co. 
"DanRusseltheFox."  1911  :  Methuen  &  Co.,  Ltd. 
"The  Story  of  the    Discontented  Little    Elephant." 

1912  :  Longmans,  Green  &  Co. 
"  In  Mr.  Knox's  Country." 

1915  :  Longmans,  Green  &  Co. 


PRINTBD  IK   GRKilT  BRITAIN   BY    K.    CI.AY    AND  SONS,    LTD.. 
BRUNSWICK   STRBBT,    STAMt'ORU   STRBET,    S.E.  1,    AND   BUNOAY,    SUFFOLK. 


